All in Due Time
by MoralityProfessor
Summary: Set two years after Season 4, Bruce is helping Detective Gordon bring order back to Gotham, while trying to rework his relationships with Selina and Alfred who have just returned. Rated T for violence, hope to update weekly.
1. Chapter 1

Bruce pulled up to the arrival terminal at Gotham Central Airport. The doors to terminal B opened and a wave of people exited. Bruce scanned the moving faces for two familiar ones, but as the doors closed behind the last people, no one recognizable came into view.

Bruce sighed, glancing at his watch. 3:00 PM. Their plane was only supposed to be landing now and he was mildly irritated for arriving so early. The excitement that had kept him up the previous night had also woken him early in the morning. He had gotten to work right away, wanting everything to be perfect. When the house was clean to Alfred's standards and the lasagna dinner made, it was only 11:00 AM. Bruce spent another hour going over everything almost compulsively – making sure there were no creases in the set beds, straightening cutlery at the table (already set for dinner), and wiping down glassware in the cabinets to remove any smudges. Having completed everything he could find to do, Bruce became restless, trying to occupy himself with one thing or another - from a boxing session to a swim in the pool to leafing through an old novel. But nothing had distracted him for too long, and when he found himself pacing the empty home with nothing to do, Bruce pulled out of Wayne Manor at 2:15, reasoning that with traffic he would make it there on time.

It had taken almost two years for the airport to be cleared, the old structure and debris removed, and a new one built. He had been anticipating this moment for a week now, or, if you were really counting, the past two years. Bruce settled himself in his seat and leaned back, closing his eyes.

The rebuilding of Gotham had taken a while – it was still a work in progress. Getting the hospital staffed and running had been a big priority in the early days, as well as rebuilding the bridge that anchored Gotham to the mainland. It had taken 4 months to get electricity back to the entire city. Electric lines all over had been damaged – some in the explosions and many in the free-for-all that had commenced in the aftermath. Those first few weeks had been scary, with murders, burglaries and muggings happening left and right. Bruce had had some very hands-on experience helping Gordon patrol the streets, making a presence, showing criminals there was civil order in Gotham.

Of course, it had not been only criminals. Many citizens, helpless and hopeless about such basic things as food and shelter, were in a morally ambiguous place, caught stealing food and materials to rebuild their homes. Most had been let off; there were bigger problems to worry about. As the streets were cleared of debris, the hospital was restaffed and supplies flown in on helicopters. But the six months it took to get Gotham General Hospital fully functional cost lives. There had been three long weeks where the overworked and undersupplied staff of five had done their best with the resources they had. Dead bodies were sent daily to the morgue and one of the nurses herself caught an infectious disease ad died. Doctors finally arrived, but in the rush to get help and onboard new staff, it took a whole month to realize that one of the new hires was killing patients to harvest organs and sell them at exorbitant prices. The bridge had taken another eight months to repair and during that time all supplies had to be flown in.

The doors opened again, and a new set of people swarmed out. Bruce found himself searching their faces again, despite knowing Alfred and Selina weren't due for some time. Unsurprisingly, they did not step out of the double doors.

Bruce's personal life required a rebuilding of sorts as well. The first few weeks he had lived hour to hour, minute to minute, accompanying Gordon on long patrols, breaking up fights, calling ambulances whenever someone was found alive, and arranging for bodies to buried. He had eaten at the station with Gordon, often crashed at Gordon's house, occasionally they both stayed overnight at the police headquarters. On the nights he had made it to Wayne Manor, it was always past midnight; he would drag himself upstairs and be sleeping before his head hit the pillow.

He barely had a moment to think during that time. Though he had been present day in and out, always with something going on, those months really seemed like a blur to him and it was only as order was restored bit by agonizing bit in Gotham that he had a little time to worry about other things. Reinforcements were brought in and Bruce finally had time to realize that Wayne Manor was becoming an unacceptable mess. He was still helping out at the police station but was assigned to a 12-hour shift instead of working as needed. It was that first day, back at Wayne Manor by 7PM, that he had noticed the stench. Moldy dampness wafted in with every breath, and it took some time to find the source, or, as It was, the sources. Bruce had not done laundry for three months, and often found himself wearing the same clothes for three days at a time before changing. The sweaty, sometimes wet, always dirty clothing would make their way wherever they fell – if Bruce managed to take a shower one day, the clothing would scatter the bathroom hall, if he didn't collapse in his bed the moment he got there, articles of clothing would litter his bedroom floor, or sometimes, the hallway, as he would undress on his way to sleep. The clothing had started to mold, and Bruce didn't know what to do about it.

He had always been a gentleman. Alfred had taught him to cook, clean up after himself, sew, fold laundry, and set a table. But long-term upkeep of a house was beyond him. But he learned, slowly though it was, and often the hard way. The already moldy clothing he discarded, and he began doing his own laundry every week. Smell was a helpful indicator as to what needed to be cleaned, and it was a big surprise after doing his first shopping trip to open the refrigerator and find rotting vegetables and mold inside, which needed to be cleaned before he could put away any of his newly purchased goods. It was also a shock for him to realize that toilets needed cleaning – he had always thought the toilet was cleaned by flushing it.

Slowly, steadily, he got into a rhythm, and kept house in a manner he hoped Alfred would be proud of. He would spend most of his day at the station, patrolling streets with Gordon, and come home in the evening to dinner, housework, a shower, and bed.

Bruce glanced over the faces of people leaving terminal B, not expecting to see them yet. They had lost contact after Alfred and Selina left the city and for months Bruce pushed them to the back of his mind. Not that he didn't worry about them, because he did, a lot. But he knew Selina would be safe with Alfred and there had been so much to do, barely a moment he could really think, to spend quantity time worrying about them. When electricity had been finally restored, Bruce made a few phone calls, but reached a dead end. He had no idea where Alfred and Selina had gone and couldn't begin to know where to look. Phone lines had been down in Gotham and a new company had been flown in to replace everything. Wayne Manor had a new phone number, and Alfred would not be able to know that. But Bruce was comforted that Alfred was resourceful and knew where he lived.

Sure enough, a year and nine months after the apocalyptic-like event, the post was restored in Gotham and Bruce received twenty-one letters from Alfred at once. He had sat down in his favorite armchair as he read them and would not admit that he cried multiple times throughout. They had moved around a lot at first, stayed in a shelter, moved to a hotel, then were taken in by a sweet elderly couple upstate. Selina had much difficulty adjusting to a wheelchair. Alfred did not mince words describing her reality – "like a fish out of water". The first few letters were painful to read, it sounded like Selina was miserable and Alfred could do nothing to cheer her. But then, he wrote, sounding hopeful, of an operation that might restore the feeling in her lower body. It was unclear if she would ever walk again and Alfred wrote that he had not told her about the surgery yet; he didn't want to get her hopes up until more details were available. The next letter was short, they would do the operation, and Selina had become pensively quiet, an upturn from her previous behavior, which had been bitter and resentful. Alfred detailed the surgery in his next letter. It was a success, Selina could feel her legs, and the doctors were cautiously optimistic. With physical therapy, she might be able to walk again, although acrobatics as she had done in the past would never be on the table. The next few letters described the exercises she was doing and Alfred's pride at her quiet determination. The doctors said it could be years before she would walk again, but she was already much ahead of their planned schedules. Alfred wrote that she was happier then he had seen her in a while and they had formed a friendship. She was, in Alfred's words, "a delightful young lady". Selina had taken a few steps by Alfred's next letter, and was walking (though with a heavy limp) by the next. The last letter said that they missed him and hoped Gotham mail would be running shortly (they heard that it would reopen within the month), so they could finally be in touch, and provided a phone number to reach him.

Bruce had called immediately at that point and him and Alfred had spoken for hours, planning their return to Gotham. Selina's therapy took priority at that point, but once either Gotham Central Airport was finished being rebuilt ("Soon, the construction's been going on for over a year," Bruce said) or a qualified therapist would open a practice in Gotham (Bruce had heard rumors about this), they would make their way down. As it happened, the therapist opened a practice first, but the airport was set to open the following month, so they waited. There was another month's delay in the opening, and a rush for tickets once it did, but Alfred finally secured two tickets to Gotham the previous week. Bruce had been anticipating this moment since, although now he felt decidedly nervous. He had not spoken to Selina at all; she had been out whenever he and Alfred had spoken on the phone. And he wondered how it would be to have Alfred back, what sort of dynamic there would be, especially because he had been finding a quiet comfort in keeping Wayne Manor orderly and scheduled.

And he appreciated Gordon insisting he take the weekend off. Things hadn't gotten less busy over the two years at Gotham Police, but they had gotten less urgent. The major work now mainly involved busting criminal gangs and drug cartels that had risen in wake of the chaos. They were currently working on a case of an organized crime ring, where they had just gotten a plant into the group. Gordon had insisted Bruce take off a few days to prepare for Alfred and Selina's arrival as their plant needed to lay low for a short while anyway.

Bruce watched as more people exited the doors. They slid shut before opening again to allow some latecomers out, and hadn't fully closed again before they slid open, and a familiar face stepped out. Alfred, laden with two suitcases and a duffel bag and a backpack stepped out, scanning his surroundings, probably looking for Bruce. And behind him, a disgruntled look on her face, was Selina.


	2. Chapter 2

**A big thank you to everyone who read, followed, and reviewed. Just to let you know, while this story is Bruce-Selina centric, I really appreciate the Gotham Writer's take, where they follow the tumultuous dynamic that is Batman and Catwoman's relationship. In following the tradition, it will be a while before they come to good terms because they have a lot to work through.**

 **Also want to apologize because I'm pretty new to fan-fiction writing and haven't gotten an editor yet. Plan to go over these chapters at some point and revise, nothing major in the storyline, but just a general review for spelling, grammatical structure, story flow. Will let you know when I do.**

 **Thanks again to everyone who read and especially to those who reviewed. Please feel free to leave comments, criticism and suggestions. I can't promise to use every suggestion, but will definitely keep them in mind.**

 **Enjoy!**

CHAPTER 2

A stilted silence filled the car. Bruce's grip tightened on the steering wheel and he offered Alfred, sitting in the passenger seat beside him, a stiff smile. Selina sat in the back, having insisted that Alfred ride up front.

"I imagine you have a lot of catching up to do," she had said. Bruce glanced her way in the rearview mirror. She sat, hands folded over one another in her lap, poised primly, as she gazed out the side window serenely, apparently deep in thought.

Something was off. It wasn't awkward exactly, but there was an unnatural quiet in the air, as if an unspoken force dared them to be silent. Bruce tried to think back to what had gone wrong. He and Alfred had embraced; the latter holding back tears. Selina had watched this encounter coolly, uninterested. When Bruce turned to embrace her as well, she returned the hug stiffly.

"Selina," he had said.

"Bruce," she had replied evenly, nodding curtly in his direction.

"You're looking well," he had said, not sure what to make of her aloofness. "I'm happy to see you walking."

She had given him a thin-lipped smile. "Three years before any of the doctors said I would." There was a bitterness in her tone that Bruce didn't understand. Wasn't she happy she was walking?

They loaded the luggage into the car, got in, and had now been traveling for a good few minutes in absolute silence. Alfred looked around, from Selina, to Bruce, a funny look on his face. He seemed to be deciding whether to say something or not.

"Well," he said at last. "I'm starving. What sort of delicious dinner have you cooked up for us, Master Bruce?" He had meant it to be funny, but Bruce responded without hesitation.

"An Italian lasagna dish with Greek salad, garlic bread and passion fruit parfait."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Passion fruit parfait?"

"They've been ripe for a while, I found a bunch on the estate and didn't know what to do with them." Bruce recalled the passion fruit vine that had become so overgrown it was growing up the side of their shed. He had tried to take an ax to it, but quickly realized trimming bushes would require a little more finesse than what an ax would offer. In fact, the entirety of the Wayne Manor estate grounds were in a considerably poor state; no one had tended to them in two years.

"Resourceful," Alfred said. "I'm nominally impressed."

"You know, I've been trying to keep the house in order while you were away."

"Have you?"

"I've been doing laundry, dishes, cleaning toilets." Bruce thought he caught the smallest of smiles from Selina in the back seat, but when he glanced at her again, she was back to staring out the window, indifference etched upon her face.

They pulled up to Wayne Manor not too long after. Alfred and Bruce had engaged in small talk the whole way home and both had initially tried to involve Selina in the conversation. She responded to their attempts with short replies or one-word sentences before returning to her musings/silence. Bruce and Alfred soon stopped asking.

They made their way inside with the luggage and Bruce noticed Alfred surveying the Wayne estate with a pained expression. Though he was silent about the state of the grounds - weeds everywhere, dead leaves and branches littering the floor, and overgrown trees and bushes in every corner – Bruce suspected he was already planning its restoration.

The suitcases stacked neatly by the front door, everyone made their way to the dining room for an early dinner. Alfred admired the set-table a little too enthusiastically and Bruce wondered if he was just trying to bridge what was quickly becoming an awkward dynamic, with Selina only talking when directly spoken to and never more than a sentence at a time. Bruce left the two of them at the table and entered the kitchen, busying himself with warming up the lasagna while he prepared the first course. He stacked a tray with the salad and rolls and a large pitcher of lemon water. Bringing it back out to the dining room, he was mildly surprised to hear Selina's voice in full conversation with Alfred – no stilted sentences, no long silences.

"…So I've been doing those exercises the therapist gave me, but I want at least two sessions a week now that we're here, because I think if I really push it, I can be walking normally in like two months."

Alfred listened thoughtfully and nodded his head in acknowledgement of Bruce as he sat down. "All the power to you, Selina, and I know I've said this many times before and you've proved me wrong each one, but don't be too hard on yourself. It's good to set goals, but you don't want to be disappointed -ah, thank you," he said as Bruce heaped some salad onto his plate.

Selina waved her hand in dismissal, but a smile played at her lips. "And, as you've said, I've proved you wrong. I intend to continue that. -Thank you, Bruce," she said offering her plate for some salad and a garlic roll, then asked conversationally, "What have you been up to lately?"

Bruce frowned, slightly unsettled by her sudden change in nature, the sudden warmth. He glanced curiously at Alfred, eating his garlic roll and not making eye contact, and wondered if he had something to do with it.

"Ah, well," Bruce served himself some food and sat down. "Things haven't been too bad lately, you know, not compared to how they were at first. There've been a couple crime rings that have grown out of all the chaos and we're working on one now. They've been stealing a lot of things – not with monetary value, but sentimental value, and then ransoming them off to their desperate owners." Bruce paused to take a bite of his food. "Anyway, we got a plant in the group last week, and they're planning a heist, so we hope to get them together and arrested all at once." He noticed Selina's absent expression and elaborated. "This time they're planning on stealing something with monetary value. We have a charity event coming up later this month, and the Queen has a necklace she's displaying at the gala. They're going to try steal that."

Selina arched an eyebrow. "The Queen? Of England?"

Bruce nodded, swallowing a bite of garlic bread. "Funds will go to rebuilding Gotham. There are a lot of cool pieces that have been donated for display. Most actually are worthless but have historic value. Like we have a pair of Elvis Presley's underwear. And the gun John Wilkes Boothe used to shoot Lincoln."

"One useless and one negative piece of history." Alfred shook his head disapprovingly.

Bruce shrugged. "It has interest. People will pay to see it."

"The rich do have a way of making money from nothing, don't they," Selina said.

"It's all going to charity," Bruce said.

Selina rolled her eyes and continued eating.

"Anyway, there are six guys that will be there at the gala," Bruce continued. "And we're working to catch them in action and arrest them all."

"Why not just arrest them now?" Selina asked. "Don't you have a plant? Doesn't he have evidence against them?"

"Not on all of them," Bruce corrected. "And it's quite an elaborate scheme they've set up. Very Ocean's 11-esque. So we want to make sure they're all there, at the event, before we make the arrests, or we could end up missing a few of them."

"I see," Alfred looked thoughtfully at Bruce. "And what part are you playing here exactly, Bruce?"

"Intermediary," Bruce said, through another bite of salad. "The plant can't talk to any of the cops directly. We're dealing with dangerous people here; one of the members has a history of cutting off the arms of his enemies and leaving them to bleed out. So I speak with the plant, and get that information to Gordon. You know, it's routine work, not particularly exciting, but Gordon tells me he hasn't ever seen such elaborate a set-up. It's cool to be a part of this, you know, I've heard a little about the schematics of the heist and frankly it's genius."

Selina narrowed her eyes at him but didn't say anything.

He continued. "I mean, from what I've seen, these guys are professionals. And they've only been in operation about a year, which makes it even more impressive."

Selina set her cup down. Alfred cleared his throat and said, "Not praising criminals, are we Master Bruce?"

"Well, they'll be behind bars soon enough."

Bruce soon headed to the kitchen and returned with the heated lasagna. The entire pan was emptied over the next half hour as they ate and talked. Alfred complimented Bruce on his growing skills as a chef, and Bruce told them a little more about what his long days looked like. Selina picked at her food and seemed to grow irritated as Bruce explained what his involvement in the case would be over the coming days. He didn't quite know what to make of her mood. She would chew her food quietly at times, apparently lost in thought, occasionally joining the conversation to ask a question or make a sarcastic comment, but otherwise seemed annoyed.

Once the passion fruit parfait had been served and eaten, Bruce cleared the table and Alfred stood, stifling a yawn. "I know it's only 6PM, Master Bruce, but I could do well with a good night's sleep."

"Of course." Bruce replied. "Your rooms are prepared with fresh bedding."

Selina seemed surprised at this announcement. "Oh, I'm not staying," she said, as if to clarify.

Bruce and Alfred turned to look at her.

"You're not?" Bruce asked, brows creased in a frown.

""Sorry, Bruce." She offered him an apologetic smile. "I have a friend who's offered me a place with them, and, well, I obviously can't stay at Wayne Manor forever, so I figured I'd head over. I don't have much stuff, I'll just need a taxi. Don't worry," she said at his pained expression. "I'll be back to visit soon."

Bruce was taken aback by the turn of events but quickly recovered. "Of course. You'll let me walk you out though?"

She nodded, turning to Alfred. "Alfred, thank you so much for everything. I don't know what I would have done without your grumpy cheer to keep me company." Her eyes welled for a moment and she stepped forward to embrace him.

"Of course, Miss Kyle," he said gruffly, returning the hug. "And you keep up your stubbornness, it'll get you far." He pulled away, eyes glistening, and looked from Bruce to Selina, then back again. He seemed puzzled, as if he wanted to say something but decided against it. "Very well. Good night, Selina. I'll see you shortly, Master Bruce." He nodded once more toward them and turned on his heels, exiting the dining room, toward the second floor.

Bruce and Selina stood in silence for a moment before Bruce gestured toward the hallway entrance and the two began making their way slowly to the front door.

Bruce spoke first. "It's good to have you back, Selina."

She didn't respond right away, just stared quietly ahead. Finally, she replied, without intonation, "It's good to be back." She limped forward, and Bruce noticed for the first time how heavy she was on her right foot.

"Does it hurt?" He asked, indicating toward her leg.

"A bit." She shrugged. "It hurt a lot more to think I wouldn't walk again."

"I can imagine." They continued forward down the hall and Bruce realized they were passing the sitting room, the very one that Jeremiah had shot Selina in - shot her, smiled, and left her bleeding out on the coffee table. He turned to look at her and was surprised to find her staring back at him, incredulity on her face.

"Can you?" She asked, angry. "Can you really imagine what that's like?"

"Bruce slowed his pace, before saying quietly, "No, Selina. I'm sure I have no idea."

"Damn right," she muttered.

Their pace slowed to a stop, half way down the hall, and they stared at one other.

"You can tell me about it, Selina," Bruce said softly. "You don't have to deal with it alone."

He had said the wrong thing. Selina's eyes narrowed to slits and she shook her head angrily. "Really, Bruce? Really? I spent three terrifying months thinking I would never walk again, and then endured over a year of agonizing therapy, every day, with doctors left and right making useless predictions about how long it would take for me to walk again - while I was still struggling to move my toes! And then," her voice grew higher, more strained, "I'm walking, months later, against everyone's expectations, and all they can say is how they knew I'd be able to do it, as if they hadn't been predicting my failure for months behind my back! I'm tired of people pretending to be on my side after I've done all the hard work - yes, alone!"

Bruce held up his hands and spoke, still maintaining a level tone. "Selina, I'm not saying that. I'm just saying that I know it's been a while, but I want to hear about you – what you went through, where you are now."

Selina glared at him. "Why would you care? You've been lounging around your manor for two years learning how to clean toilets," she sneered at him derisively.

Bruce's brows furrowed together, the first hint of irritation in his eyes. "Of course I care, Selina. Don't pretend I don't, we both know that's not true."

"Why didn't you come with?" Selina asked suddenly, a sharp edge to her voice.

The crease in Bruce's brows deepened. "What do you mean?" He asked.

"I mean, why didn't you come with, to make sure I was okay, if you cared so much?"

Bruce's jaw set in a hard line. "Selina, they needed help here. You have no idea what it was like. I sent Alfred with you. Did he not make sure you were okay? Help you with whatever you needed?"

Selina scowled at him, resentment written on her face. She changed tactics. "It sure took you a long time to get in touch with us, Bruce. You'd think someone who cared would try a little harder." The fury was evident in her voice.

His expression darkened. "That's not fair Selina, and you know it. Of course I tried to find you, but I didn't have any leads to go on. Gotham hospital referred me to a shelter, but they had no idea where you might be!" He broke off, voice bitter, feeling unfairly blamed for a situation so clearly out of his control. "And it's not like you tried to get in touch with me. You knew exactly where I was!"

Selina's eyes were poisonous slits. "I was paralyzed from the waist down!" She spat.

They stood there, at an impasse, shooting daggers at one another with their glares, before Selina shook her head and turned, limping heavily toward the door. Grabbing the duffel bag beside the entrance, she turned to look back at Bruce.

"Thanks for your concern, Bruce," she hissed, and left, slamming the door behind her.

Bruce stood for a few minutes staring at the closed door, face hot, breathing heavily. That was not how things were supposed to go. Why couldn't she accept his care as genuine, his gestures as kind? Why did she have to question everything he did? He turned, still seething, and headed back to the dining room, a weight in his stomach. The sound of running water caught his attention, and he found Alfred in the kitchen, rinsing off dinner dishes. He wondered how much the butler had heard.

Alfred looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and pity.

"You don't have to do that," Bruce gestured toward the dishes, grabbing an apron and fastening it behind his back. "I thought you were going to get some sleep." He couldn't help the bitterness in his voice that had nothing to do with Alfred.

Alfred stepped away from the dishes, toward Bruce and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You can finish the dishes tonight, but tomorrow I'm back on duty, alright mate?"

Bruce nodded wordlessly, and trod toward the sink, placing his hands in the warm, sudsy water.

"Bruce," Alfred called from the kitchen doorway.

Bruce turned his head toward his older friend.

"Give her a little time, mate. She missed you something terrible."


	3. Chapter 3

**Edit: I realized one chunk of sentence was missing and just updated that.**

 **Hello, everyone! My sincere apologies about the extra weeks' wait on this chapter. I really only get time to write on the weekends, and I spent last weekend finalizing the layout of this story. Now that I know how things are planned, there should be a story out on time, every week. (And just to clarify, 'on time' will mean either Saturday or Sunday.)**

 **I actually have a bunch of other stories planned that follow this story line, but I'll see what the interest is before embarking on another one. (And I hope to finish this one, regardless of interest.)**

 **Going forward, I will reply to reviews before each chapter. Feel free to comment, criticize, point out inconsistencies. I am quite new to the Batman world, so am somewhat unfamiliar with the Gotham universe - let me know if I have not gotten something right.**

 **Phillipe363 - _Thank you for your kind review! Every relationship definitely has two sides, and I really would like to explore the sides of both Selina and Bruce. I think in this case, Selina is mad that Bruce did not stay with her as he promised, but she can't bring herself to admit (to him, and to herself) that it bothers her so much, so instead she brings other reasons she is mad at him - but those arguments don't really hold. And that is part of the Bruce/Selina dynamic, each seeing only their side, in two very different ways._**

 _ **I explore a little in this chapter Bruce's thoughts on staying working for Gordon and hope to transition him out of it at some point, and maybe even into Batman.**_

 **And, finally, onto the chapter...**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 3**

Bruce splashed a handful of cold water on his face, then grabbed a deep purple towel beside the sink to dry off. It was only 5:30 in the morning, but he had not slept well the previous night. It wasn't much earlier than he usually got up though; he wanted to make Alfred breakfast this morning and knew the butler was an early riser.

He hoped that after a good breakfast, some time – alone - with Alfred, and a strong cup of coffee, he would be on the way to a productive, distraction-free day.

He dressed, rather informally, with a pair of jeans and a dark t-shirt. He would be meeting their plant today and the less he stood out, the better. As he pulled on a pair of socks and shoes, tying the laces, the smell of sausage wafted up to him. He shook his head, grinning.

"Morning Master B," Alfred said from the behind the stove.

"Morning Alfred," Bruce peered over the butler's shoulder to see a mix of eggs and sausage steaming in the frying pan, and a jug of what was probably freshly squeezed orange juice on the counter beside him. Sure enough, he noticed the juicer out on the counter and, a twinge of guilt, orange peels in the compost bin. Bruce had not used the compost bin in two years.

"I thought you might be up early," Alfred said, poking at the sausage with a spatula.

"I hoped to be up before you and make breakfast actually," Bruce said, though he did not sound disappointed.

Alfred turned to look at the younger man, his expression serious. "Now, now, Master Bruce. I've been neglecting my responsibilities as your butler for two years. You washed the dishes last night, but I am officially back on duty." He followed Bruce's gaze. "Yes, the sausage is from upstate. They have a delightful brand up there. I wasn't sure it was worth the trip, but I'm glad I brought it. We have next to nothing around this house, I'll have to do marketing today and stock up."

Bruce smiled, amused. He thought he had done a good job keeping house but was beginning to realize that perhaps he hadn't quite lived up to Alfred's standards.

They ate a delicious breakfast and Bruce remembered how much he missed Alfred's presence. It was so much more than the tasty food, the clean home and the order that Alfred provided. Memories of life before his parents' deaths often left him feeling hollow inside. He couldn't quite say he had been close with his father, but family dinners were always a fond memory. Everyone would tell about their day and his father would often talk of the bores of work and speak jokingly of handing over Wayne Enterprises to his son with a conspiring wink. Bruce's mom had always sent him off to school with a kiss on his forehead and the same piece of advice: "Having a lot of money doesn't make you rich, Bruce. Who you are is what you have." He couldn't say things ever returned to normal after their deaths, but Alfred provided a stability that allowed him to function, and with that came a familial bond Bruce shared with no one else. Alfred was not his father and certainly not his mother, but somehow managed to provide the care and guidance lacking in a home without parents.

They spoke easily at breakfast, reconnecting a little, and Bruce was about to head out to the station when the phone rang.

"Bruce? It's Gordon. Everyone arrive safely?"

"Yeah."

"Great – listen, change of plans. I know you were going to come in today, but we think it's best you're not making appearances here at the police station while you're meeting with Tag. There've been some rumors – anyway, we'll talk about that later, but head down to Marigold's like we said, Tag will meet you there at 9, and you can head home when you're done. I'll call you, and we'll arrange a time to meet, today or tomorrow. Questions?"

"Nope. You know where to reach me."

They hung up and Bruce headed out. Marigold's Moonlight was a bar deep in the center of Gotham's worst, and it required that Bruce arrive by foot. Pulling up anywhere in that neighborhood of Gotham in his car would not only be a death wish, but a dead giveaway. The sleek black shine would be enough to warrant his murder, or if he was lucky, he'd get to watch as vagrants took hammers to the vehicle, trying to take pieces of the shiny metal, the wheels, the steering wheel, the windshield wipers, hoping to make a few bucks off an exorbitantly expensive car. But that was Gotham. And more important than the car, was the clandestine nature of the operation. He was not to make a scene anywhere, nor to draw attention to himself in any way. Bruce was supposed to blend with the neighborhood crowd, enter and leave with no one looking at him twice.

He walked, deeper and deeper into Gotham, the scenery indicative of how far in he was. Homes became more secure further in, with bars on windows and double, triple locks. And then, deeper, where securing your home no longer worked, were homes - mostly empty - with broken windows, missing doors, hanging pipes and electric wires. Here, whatever could be stolen, had been. Light fixtures on the street were empty of bulbs, garbage bags were taken out of bins, locks to electric boxes had been removed, so that the doors just hung open. Yet people milled about despite the early hour, sitting on park bench frames missing the wood slats, talking, chatting.

Bruce rounded the corner and came upon a block of small shops. How any store managed to continue in this area without going bankrupt from thievery was beyond him, but a small produce shop stood there, as well as a café and Marigold's Moonlight. Something about being served food must have brought the community together because there were no other shops open here. Bruce eyed the grimy windows of Marigold's and imagined that it may have once been hospitable, but years of lazy upkeep, a few inches of dust and peeling red paint revealing peeling purple paint beneath was not easy on the eyes. Chimes rang as he opened the door. The inside was not much better than the outside. The floor tiles were a speckled color, so you couldn't be sure the floor wasn't dirty. Though the tables looked clean, Bruce quickly realized that they had recently been painted and wondered what kind of stains you had to cover up by painting your tables. Overall, it gave off a distinctly unsanitary impression.

He had wondered why a bar would be open at 9AM, but here it made sense. There were already a dozen people inside using the bar as a coffee shop (though at least three were definitely drinking alcohol). Bruce ordered a coffee himself and sat down at a corner booth, waiting for Tag.

Tag had been a gold-find, a slightly nerdy tech-guy who happened to be in the right place at the right time and was willing to help. Well, it required a little more than that. He needed some incentive to agree, but Gordon was happy to compensate him for his time.

The door chime rang again, and Bruce looked up to see a tall, wiry man walk in, shuffling nervously as he looked around. Their eyes met, and Tag offered a small wave before heading over to the counter to order a coffee. Another minute passed before Tag made his way to Bruce's table, cup of hot coffee in hand.

"Hey man," Tag gave Bruce a feeble handshake before sitting down.

"Hey," Bruce offered a warm smile at the nervous newcomer. "How's it going?" He thought some small talk might ease Tag's mind a bit.

"Good, y'know. Been up late last night, had to pick up some extra bolts for my girl's motorcycle, y'know? Those foot pegs just don't stay on like they should, and it's not dangerous, but you gotta have somewhere to put your feet, right?"

Bruce nodded politely. It seemed Tag had a tendency to ramble when he was nervous.

"Went to like four different places before I found some. Can you believe there're only two places in Gotham that sell bolts for foot pegs?"

Bruce did not believe this but did not deign to comment. Instead, he took a sip of his coffee. It tasted like bathwater. Bathwater to which someone had added a single coffee bean and let sit overnight. He pushed it to the side.

"And then had to get back to my girl, but she was all mad at me for having taken so long, y'know, thought I was out with someone else, but I wasn't, I was just looking for bolts for her dumb foot pegs."

It amazed Bruce that someone so intelligent could be so small-minded.

"Anyway," Tag shook his head of tight blond curls and slipped his long tan fingers through the handle of his coffee mug. "I'll tell you what I've got so far, you probably know some of this, but it's easiest if I go from the beginning."

Bruce nodded wordlessly. He had a recording device on, and he'd bring that over to Gordon later. But he was also genuinely interested in what Tag would tell him.

They spoke at length for two hours, with Bruce asking for clarification on some of the schematics. Tag seemed like a nice enough guy but kept doubling back over his words to add details he'd missed, and Bruce vaguely wondered how reliable a source Tag could be when he kept forgetting highly significant points. But they plowed on, with Bruce asking leading questions to get information he thought Gordon might want.

Tag had this habit of tugging his ear and chuckling nervously when things got uncomfortable, as he did when Bruce asked him what the people he was working with were like.

"Y'know, different. Not like any group I've worked with in the past."

Bruce took this to mean that Tag had been recruited to do the occasional "job" here and there. His technical skills made him a rare catch, but it seemed something (his personality, perhaps?) kept him out of the big-timers' league as far as crime went.

Tag continued. "Heh. One of them told me he'd cut my fingers off if I'm not quick enough disabling the alarms. But that's the guy taking the necklace, so he's got bigger things to worry about if I haven't disabled them on time." Tag scrunched his nose and went on. "You know, they told me they've left some of their own unsuspecting men at the scene of crime – y'know, so the police will think they've gotten everyone, while they get away. Brutal." He shook his head in disbelief, but his expression was a mixture of awe and fear.

Bruce gave what he hoped was a convincing smile. "Well, that's why you're here. So no one gets away this time."

Tag nodded thoughtfully.

"Are you sure that's everything?"

"Yup. Well, I mean, like I said, they're still trying to figure out how to sneak the necklace out of the place, but I'll let you know once I have more info on that."

"Thanks Tag,"

"Sure. No problem. Oh, and thanks for paying for my coffee. I spent all my change last night on bolts for those foot pegs." He ran a hand through his unkempt hair.

"No worries, Tag."

They shook hands, and when Tag stepped away, he had a fifty-dollar bill in his hand. His face brightened.

"Hey, thanks, man."

"Have a great day, Tag."

Bruce walked home slowly. It was almost 12PM. Normally, he'd have another 7 hours of work at the station, but today, he was heading home. In some ways, he had expected this, known that he wouldn't be working with Gordon forever. He didn't know what was making him think this way. It wasn't as if Gordon had told him never to come to the station again. It was just while he was acting as an intermediary. This was for Tag's safety. So that they wouldn't cut off his arms and leave him to die in a field. That's what they had done to the last fellow who backstabbed them, after he tried to make off with the money they had gotten from ransom.

But Gordon didn't need him anymore and Bruce had felt this coming for a while. The first year and a half, Gordon did need him. Gotham needed him. There was always something to do, never a break, and when he tried to take a break or a short nap between the exhaustive workload, there was Gordon – tapping him on the shoulder, apologizing for disturbing him, but needing his help. Over the previous six months however, things had quieted down and Bruce was often in a position where he was ready to help out, do something, but there was nothing to do. He had busied himself with odd jobs around the police station – filling out paperwork, organizing files, tidying up – not his most thrilling moments, but something to keep him occupied. As long as there was something to do, he felt a sense of purpose. He was making a difference.

That Gordon could spare to keep him home for an entire afternoon and evening was dishearteningly painful, but it was also a long time in the coming. Legally speaking, there were problems with Bruce, a non-licensed volunteer, being as involved in police work as he was. That had been overlooked in the martial-law-like state Gotham had been in, but it was getting harder and harder to ignore. Bruce did not have police training. He did not have a college degree. He wanted to start thinking about his future so that when the time came to leave police work with Gordon, he would already know what he wanted to do and not be left - lost - unsure of how he could make a meaningful difference in the world.

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 **Thanks for reading! Next chapter: We find out how they plan to steal the Queen's necklace, and Selina returns. :D**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for the reviews!**

 **Guest: Here it is! :D**

 **angellcakes23: Thank you! Appreciate it!**

 **Phillipe363: Yeah, I like to think that Bruce did a pretty good job of housekeeping while Alfred was away, but slowly is beginning to realize that there's more to keeping house than just keeping things clean. Not sure yet when/how I'll transition Bruce to Batman, but I expect it to be quite different then the original versions.**

 **A/N: This chapter is a little shorter than the others, but you get a glimpse of how the heist will be carried out, and Selina returns. Once again, would love to hear your thoughts, although you're definitely not obligated! Really appreciate those who took the time to review and leave their thoughts.**

 **Enjoy!**

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CHAPTER 4:

"Wow. Nice work, Bruce," Gordon said, clearly impressed.

"Thanks." Bruce gave a thin-lipped smile.

James Gordon and two police officers, Detective Caleb Maters and Officer Miles Conway, sat in the living room of Wayne Manor. They had arranged to convene at the luxurious home to discuss details of Bruce's meeting the previous day.

Sun streamed in from behind the open curtains and the sound of a lawn mower cut through the momentary silence. Bruce had been standing as they listened to the recording, but now that it was over, he sat down on an armchair across from the others, looking inquiringly at Gordon.

"He was a bit all over the place," Bruce said. "I tried to keep the conversation targeted as best as I could."

Gordon nodded, brows furrowed in thought. "No, you did an excellent job with that."

Officer Conway, a younger man in his mid-twenties, stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Do we have a timeline of this though? Didn't seem like he was following a sequential order."

Bruce tossed the notepad he'd been holding on the coffee table in front of them. "Yes. I went through the recording a couple times, this is what I pulled out of it."

Gordon picked up the pad, scanning it briefly. "Yeah. This looks about right. They have one guy going in through the kitchen entrance bringing their equipment, so they won't set off the metal detectors in the main entrance. Tag gets his tools and disables the alarms on the necklace display case. Then they've got another guy who will hit the main breaker and cut the power, so all lights go off."

"Brilliant." Conway whistled. "The gala starts at 7:30, after nightfall, and the display room has no windows – it's in the center of the museum - so if they cut the lights, it'll be almost impossible to see."

"Bastards," Detective Maters growled. He was an older, slightly heavyset man with graying hair. Bruce didn't know him well but had seen him around on occasion. Maters gave off the impression that something was always irritating him, and had a gruff manner about him.

Gordon gave a tight smile and continued. "So one of their guys breaks into the display case while the lights are off and gets the necklace."

"They're not sure yet how they'll get it out," Bruce said. "They were thinking of using the kitchen entrance, but don't want to be carrying the necklace around in the open. And Tag said there was a concern security will be tighter once the lights are off."

"Well, they're right," Conway grinned.

"They also plan on having a guy parked outside in a getaway car," Bruce reminded them. "We need to get him too."

Gordon nodded. "Yeah, we'll have to think about the best way to do this. We could arrest them as each one enters, but I'm worried they'll catch wind and disappear before we get them all."

"We could get a bunch of cops in place after the lights go off, and just arrest the whole lot of them at once," Conway suggested. "That'll be a surprise for them."

Gordon considered this. "Unless we can get the lights back on right away, I'm not sure I fancy our chances. We can bring flashlights, but still, I'd prefer to work in the light."

"We could have a cop or two get the guy in the car and stake it out," Bruce suggested. "So, as each guy leaves the hall and gets in the car, officers can arrest them one-by-one."

"Interesting," Gordon said, thinking about it. "An added benefit with that is it'll be in the parking lot, away from civilians. Interesting," he repeated, voicing his thoughts out loud. "I don't want that necklace getting out of the building, or preferably, into anyone's hands at all. We'll see if we can get a replica made or something."

Maters nodded. "We'll weigh our options and see what works best. But there are still more details to sort out. Like the kid said, we don't know how they plan on getting the necklace out the building."

Bruce didn't say anything. He was sure Detective Maters didn't mean it in a condescending way. That's just how he saw Bruce, as a younger person - a kid.

"Bruce, you'll stay in touch with Tag?" Gordon asked. "We want to know of any changes, no matter how small, or unimportant he might think they are." He paused, then added, "Great job so far. This information is very thorough."

"Thank you," Bruce said. "I read the handbook on interrogation you recommended."

Gordon grinned. "All 769 pages?"

Bruce nodded.

"Long book, but it's got some interesting things in…" Gordon's voice trailed off and he frowned.

Bruce followed his gaze to the living room entrance and realized that Selina Kyle was walking past the doorway. She paused, noticing them for the first time, and froze, expression almost guilty. She appeared surprised to see them all sitting in the living room - about as surprised as they were to see her standing there.

Selina recovered quickly, eyeing them suspiciously, gaze finally resting on Bruce. "I thought you were going to be at the police station," she said, almost as an accusation.

"Well, we're not." Bruce said slowly. "We're here." Before he could ask what she was doing there, in _his_ house, she spoke.

"I'm looking for Alfred," she said. "I'm missing some of my medical papers and I thought he might have them…"

"He's in the kitchen," Bruce said stiffly.

"Right. Well, don't let me interrupt you. I'll find him." Selina turned resolutely and continued past the doorway, a limp in her step.

A silence settled over the men in the room. Bruce resisted the urge to follow, to ask Selina why she felt so entitled to walk freely into his home after her behavior two nights ago.

Gordon was peering at Bruce, expression confused, apparently trying to work out what had just happened. He had not told Gordon of his fall-out with Selina; there had been no reason to. He had just said that she was doing well.

"Don't you lock your doors?" Maters asked gruffly.

"He did," Conway said. "When we came in. I saw him lock it."

"Yeah, well, Selina has a thing for getting in to places she shouldn't," Gordon said, gaze still on Bruce. "I'm just surprised she came in through the front door instead of a window."

"Yeah, well, she can't walk properly," Bruce said, purposely not meeting Gordon's eyes.

Gordon stared at Bruce another moment, then, seeming to come out of a reverie, he shook his head. "We should probably get going," he said, picking up some files resting on the coffee table. "Bruce, keep us updated, I hope you and Tag will meet up again later this week. The gala is only three weeks away. Oh, and we want to head to the museum tomorrow to get a better idea of the layout. Would you like to come?"

"Sure," Bruce said quickly. "What time?"

"11 AM. You'll come a little before that? We don't want anyone to see us arriving together."

"Of course," Bruce said.

He walked the officers out, down the hall and to the front door where he bade them good-bye. Gordon paused mid-hand shake and said quietly, so only Bruce could hear, "I couldn't imagine going through something like that," he said, nodding his head in the direction of the hall behind Bruce, clearly talking about Selina. "You know, not being able to walk and then all that therapy. It probably hasn't been easy on her."

"Thanks, Gordon. I'll keep that in mind."

Gordon shook his head, smiling, apparently not sure how to take Bruce's statement. "See you tomorrow, Bruce."

He nodded, standing on the front porch, and watched the officers get in their car, start the engine and pull away. He stood there a moment longer, contemplating, before deciding what he was going to do. He turned, pulling the front door open, and stepped inside. He came face-to-face with Selina, on her way out. In her hand she carried a folder of papers bearing the St. Joseph's Hospital stamp. They stared at one another for a moment.

"I'm just leaving," she said, trying to step past him.

"Selina," Bruce said. "I'm sorry about the other night. I don't know how things escalated like that."

"Don't you?" She asked coolly.

"Well, I'm sure it had a lot to do with a misunderstanding, because I had no intention of hurting you with that conversation."

"I don't have time for this, Bruce," Selina tried stepping past him once more, but he blocked her way.

"I just wanted to apologize and see if we could start over."

"No. We can't." She said shortly, and he finally moved out of the way. "Bye, Bruce." Selina said, and stepped out of the front door.

 _There,_ Bruce thought. _No one can say I didn't try to make things right. If she doesn't want to accept an apology, then it's on her now, if she wants to fix it._ He turned and made his way down the hall, emotions somewhere between resentment and righteous annoyance. _Well_ , he thought bitterly, _at least she didn't slam the door on her way out._

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 **I know this chapter didn't end on the best note for these two, but it will get better. I just can't promise it will stay better, because they are Bruce and Selina. All in due time... :D**


	5. Chapter 5

**Guest: Sorry, just one chapter at a time. If I am ever ahead of schedule, would be happy to post two, but not quite there yet.**

 **angellcakes23: Don't worry, they'll get a chance to speak. It might be a few chapters before they _really_ sit down and talk, but you'll already see a little less animosity between them hopefully in Chapter 6. **

**Christopher Black1: Thank you! You made my day when I read that! :D**

 **This chapter spends a lot of time going over the museum layout. I hope it is not boring - all these details are very important for the heist. Enjoy!**

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CHAPTER 5

Bruce pulled out of Wayne Manor the following day at 10:30 AM. He and Alfred had had a late breakfast together. He felt unusually grumpy and wondered if it had to do with his lack of schedule. He had worked for two years at Gordon's side, day in and day out until 7PM each night (sometimes later), and now he was spending an awful lot of time at home. Initially distracted by Alfred's return (the two had spent many hours in conversation catching up), Bruce grew restless as they exhausted telling what had happened to each over the past two years and the hours of conversations shortened. After two years of rigorous scheduling, it was enough to drive him mad. He'd spent an hour going through books that had belonged to his father, pulling out ones with interesting titles and subjects. He ended up with a large pile of books on a wide range of topics, including one on the rise and fall of civilizations, a psychology textbook and an old martial arts manual that had been hiding on a dusty bookshelf in his home. He skimmed through them all but couldn't shake the feeling that he was only reading them because he had nothing better to do.

It was a relief to pull up at the museum, to feel involved in something again. He pulled into the parking lot beneath the museum and exited, taking an elevator up to the lobby.

It wasn't long before Gordon, Maters, and Conway arrived as well, though they came in through the main entrance, having parked their cars across the street.

Gordon went up to the reception desk and had a brief exchange with the fellow behind it, who then apparently left to call his supervisor. Sure enough, a few minutes later, he returned, accompanied by a short woman in a suit. She approached them, her curly hair knotted in a bun at the nape of her neck.

"Hello," the woman introduced herself, shaking hands with everyone present. "I'm Manilla Marge, Manager of this Museum. You can call me Ms. Marge. I'll be showing you around today."

Bruce kept his face straight at the heavy alliteration. Ms. Marge frowned as she peered at him over her thick spectacled glasses and they shook hands. She seemed to be appraising him, wondering what such a young kid could be doing with this group of cops. Bruce was used to that by now though.

"Well, I figure we'll start from the bottom and work our way up to the top," she said, leading them in the direction of the elevators. She pressed the down button and pulled out a security key as they waited for the elevator. "We're in the lobby now, but this building is built on a mountain, so even though there's an entrance to the road here it's not technically the ground floor." Ms. Marge shook her head and laughed as the elevator opened. "Well, it is in elevator terms." They all stepped inside the mirrored elevator and Bruce noticed that they were currently at Floor 0. The elevator went from Floor -3 to Floor 4. Ms. Marge inserted the clearance key into the lock beside the panel of buttons and pressed 'Floor -3'.

"Most floors do not require clearance, but this one does. Our vaults are here and this is the only floor actually underground."

They exited the elevator as they reached level -3. They stepped out into a room that looked like a long hallway, with vaults lining both walls. Gordon stepped forward, peering around, though there was not much else to look at. Ms. Marge led them to the end of the room, gesturing around.

"Well, this is it. Not much, but items on loan that are not yet on display, or items going back to their owners are kept here. I am told," she checked her clipboard, "that the Queen's necklace is set to arrive the morning of the gala. It will be stored here until an hour before the event starts."

"We'll be in touch about that," Gordon interjected. "Based on the nature of the situation, it might be best to keep it here. Tell me, do you have any other security in this room – besides the locked vaults and the clearance cards?"

"Not usually, no." Ms. Marge pursed her lips, thinking. "For big events, we've hired a security guard to sit in this room, just in case. We can take that precaution, if you think it necessary."

"Probably a good idea," Gordon said, heading back to the elevator.

"Where does this go?" Maters asked, pointing to a door beside the elevator. They had not noticed it coming into the room.

"It's the stairwell," Ms. Marge said. "Goes all the way up to the roof. Accessible to everyone, but you need a clearance key to get to this floor."

They all headed back into the elevator and rode one floor up. The doors opened, but Ms. Marge stopped them from getting out.

"Just parking," she said, holding the doors open so they could see. "And the next floor up is too."

They rode up to the second floor, and the doors opened once more.

"Probably not relevant to you, but you can have a quick look."

They all peered out before the doors closed and they continued going up.

"You've already seen the lobby, we'll skip that for now. And the next two floors up are exhibit floors of the museum. We'll skip those as well." She smiled. "But if you'd like to see ancient Gotham artifacts, feel free to come again during visiting hours."

They passed Floor 1 and 2 and finally arrived at the third floor.

"This," Ms. Marge said, stepping out, "Is the event hall. Follow me."

They followed her into a large rectangular room clearly set up to entertain. A stage equipped with instruments rested in one corner, a dance floor beside it, while tables and elegant chairs were neatly dispersed throughout the rest of the room. Bathrooms were conveniently located on one end, and a doorway leading into a separate room stood beside the stage.

"This is the display room, I take it?" Conway asked, pointing at the doorway.

"Correct. No windows. We have had guests set up light displays or screen projections in the past, so the room needs to be able to get very dark." Ms. Marge suddenly seemed nervous. "I take it you will leave the hall as you found it - after you, er, apprehend the criminals?"

"That's the plan," Gordon said, surveying the room.

Bruce stepped in, looking around. Table displays lined all three walls, with a central display case in the middle. It was a simple room, really for people to come in and see whichever items were being exhibited.

"People usually use this room for personal presentations. Weddings will often have pictures and various items of the couple on display for people to see how their love story unfolded. Very romantic," Ms. Marge seemed very proud of herself, as if she had come up with the idea. "And charity events will often use this room to show donors the work they have been doing."

Everyone mulled around this room a little longer, but there was not much else to see. They finally left and headed back to the elevator.

"Final floor," Ms. Marge said as they waited for the elevator again. "Well, it's the roof actually. Connected to the event hall. If the weather is right, we have dancing and serve dessert up here. Also a popular place to see fireworks from."

"What's that?" Bruce pointed across the room to what looked like another elevator.

"Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me. That leads down to the kitchens. Direct elevator, doesn't stop at any other floors. The kitchen is also not accessible from within the museum at all. The entrance is outside. I'll take you there when we finish viewing the roof."

"Weren't they going to come in from the kitchens?" Conway asked Bruce as they all got in the elevator. He nodded.

There wasn't much to see on the final floor, though the view from that high up was breathtaking. It was windy though, and there were chairs and tables stacked in a corner. An elegant metal railing ran around the perimeter of the roof. They took a few minutes to look around before heading back to the lobby. From there, Ms. Marge led them out the main entrance and around the side of the building before they stopped at a bolted door. Ms. Marge pulled out a key and ushered them into the kitchen. It was a decent size, with a large walk-in refrigerator on one end. Metal pots and pans stood in neat rows on shelving and big areas for counter workspace lined most of the walls. The door to the pantry and storage area was beside the elevator that went straight to the event hall.

"The door to this place is usually left open while our chefs are inside and working," said Ms. Marge. "There is no air conditioning in here and it can get quite hot while the ovens are on."

"Do you need a clearance key to use this elevator?" Gordon asked, inspecting it. "I don't see any keyholes here."

"No, but you need a key to get into the kitchen. Although, once it's been opened, anyone can get in, I suppose."

They looked around for a few more minutes before stepping outside. Ms. Marge locked the kitchen behind them and Gordon stepped forward to shake her hand.

"Appreciate you taking the time to show us around," he said.

She shrugged. "No problem. Let me know if you need anything else."

"Will do," Gordon said.

Ms. Marge looked like she wanted to say something. Gordon waited politely.

"Er, these men," Ms. Marge finally said. "Will they be armed?"

"Armed? No," Gordon responded. "But dangerous? Quite."

And with that, they turned and left.

Bruce arrived home to an empty house. Alfred had left a note alongside a lunch in the kitchen that read, "Out on an errand. Be back by 4." It was a quarter to 4 now. Bruce sighed and sat down with his salmon fillet. There were still another three hours before he would normally be getting back from his work. He took a bite from the date-honey salmon, and his thoughts began to wander.

He didn't like having so much free time on his hands. He really needed to find an outlet. Something to do. And perhaps, more importantly, he needed to think about his future. He didn't plan on working for Gordon forever, although the idea of involving himself in detective work was intriguing. He would probably need to get a degree, though the thought of loud college campuses and people not serious about their lives or their studies irritated him to no end. He could always design his own curriculum and do it at home.

His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing phone.

"Hello?" Bruce picked up.

"Hey, man. How're ya doin'?" It was the fast talking, slightly nervous voice of Tag.

"Good. Didn't expect to hear from you so soon."

"Yeah, well, we're finalizing plans here for the heist and I got some more details for you."

"Great. When can we meet?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Uh… Can't do today. And not tomorrow either. I can do Saturday though. I'll meet you on your side of town. Any nice coffee shops around?"

Bruce made up to meet with Tag for Saturday morning, though he wished they could meet earlier. He felt a need to fill up his schedule in whatever ways possible.

As they hung up, Bruce heard a key in the lock. Alfred entered, carrying jars of paint, which Bruce soon learned were to touch up the dining room walls that Alfred had said were looking 'under the weather'. With nothing to do, Bruce offered to help, and after changing into overalls, the two set out to cover the furniture with plastic and then paint over the dining room walls.

Bruce told Alfred of his day, of the museum tour and Tag's call. He neglected to mention how stifling he was finding it to be home with nothing to do.

"So, you'll meet with this fellow Saturday?" Alfred asked, finishing up the area around the window.

"Mmm." Bruce nodded, laying tape over the wall outlet so as not to paint over it.

"And I take it that means you'll have the Officers round again on Sunday? To go over what you find out?"

Bruce nodded. "Most likely."

"I see."

There was something off about that comment, and Bruce glanced over at Alfred, his sleeves rolled up, now painting around the doorway. Sunday… He would have the cops around on Sunday… Then it clicked.

"It's your birthday, Sunday, isn't it, Alfred? June 9th?"

Alfred bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Indeed, Master Bruce."

"We don't have to have anyone over if you don't want-"

"No, that will be fine. We'll have a nice cake and get a bottle of wine. I'd be delighted if the officers wanted to join."

Bruce wondered if there was anyone else Alfred wanted to be there for his birthday. "Can we invite anyone else?" He asked.

There was a pregnant pause. "I, er, already invited Miss Kyle," Alfred said, glancing at Bruce.

It was Bruce's turn to be silent. "Great," he finally said. It was not sarcastic, but he had to force the word out, partially wondering when Alfred had had the time to see Selina.

"But she, er, declined the invitation." Alfred continued. "Said she couldn't make it if you were going to be present."

"Great," Bruce said. This time it was sarcastic. Alfred was still looking at him, as if he wanted to say something.

"Look," Bruce said. "I'm not upset with her. But we can't get anywhere if she gets mad at me every time we talk. It won't help telling me to try fix things."

Alfred held up his hands warily. "I wasn't planning on it," he said.


	6. Chapter 6

**angellcakes23: Thanks, I don't want to spoil anything, so all I'll say is you may or may not be on to something. :D I think you'll see Selina is slowly cooling off from their disagreement. Hope you enjoy!**

 **Guest: As much as this is a story about Bruce (written from his perspective mostly), it's also a story about Selina and her life, which I hope to show snippets of through her interactions with Bruce and the others. So you'll get to see a bit about where she is and what she's doing. And if I continue with this series, I was thinking of writing the next story from her perspective.**

 **Guest: Thank you! Enjoy!**

 **thomsonnoah862: Here it is, hope you like it!**

 **vanirspawn: Lol, I love your caps letters! It really makes me happy to write, knowing how much you're enjoying it!**

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CHAPTER 6

"You've got to give it to them," Gordon said, eyebrows raised. "That's pretty ingenious."

It was Sunday. Gordon, Maters, Conway - also joined by Harvey Bullock this time - were sitting in the Wayne Manor living room. Alfred was out, selecting a bottle of Merlot, while Bruce and the officers met to discuss his meeting with Tag the previous day.

"Eh, I could've thought of that," Bullock said, unimpressed.

"That's the point," Maters growled. "It's simple, yet efficient. Probably the most effective way to get it out without going through anyone else. They're good."

Bullock shook his head. "It's simple minded. They're literally dropping the necklace down a drainage pipe from the roof."

"Yeah, but there's no denying it's clever," Conway replied. "The roof is a part of the event hall, so no one will suspect them for going up there. And the drainage pipe will take it straight to the bottom, where they station someone to catch it as it falls. At that point, it's out of the museum, in their hands, and they'd get off scot-free if they were searched before leaving the museum. You'd think they were college-educated criminals."

Everyone laughed.

Bruce shifted in his seat. His meeting with Tag the previous day had not been long. They had met for coffee nearby, Tag had told him how they planned to get the necklace out of the museum – by the expedient process of dropping it down a drainage pipe from the roof – and they had been about to part ways when Bruce had extended a very generous offer.

"You know Tag, if you would ever want to go to college, I'd be happy to fund you. You're clearly bright and I have no doubt the money would be put to good use."

He had taken a liking to Tag, though a nervous and quirky fellow, and felt that his slightly anxious personality could go a lot farther in University than in the criminal world.

But Tag had stared at him, for a moment longer than was socially acceptable. And then he shook his head, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Listen, man. I know you mean well, but you just – you just can't go interfering in people's lives like that, y'know? You don't know me, and – and your money can't fix everyhing. There's more to life than just wealth, man. Listen, I'm happy to help you guys out and everything, but I didn't – I didn't agree to do this so you would pay for me to go to school."

Bruce thought Tag was being unusually defensive for someone who had just been offered tuition-free college.

"Sorry, Tag," he had said. "I didn't mean to offend you. Of course you don't have to if you don't want to."

"No worries, man, not offended. Just, like, you gotta understand, the world is a crazy place, and people are people, we're not your projects just because you have money. You can't just throw cash at us and we'll do what you want."

"You're right. I get it," Bruce said understandingly. "I apologize." But he didn't get it. He didn't understand why someone would feel offended that he had just offered to pay for their degree. And how someone who was taking cash to be a police-informant could suggest that he was being controlling by offering to fund their education. But he had evidently crossed an invisible line here and was not interested in pushing Tag further.

"That's okay, man," Tag said generously. "You didn't know."

On that note, they had parted ways.

Bruce did not mention that part to Gordon. He had a feeling that Gordon, who had been working in Gotham for many years would have been sympathetic of Tag's perspective - a perspective he still could not wrap his mind around.

"Oh, I forgot," Gordon said, snapping Bruce back to reality. "The Queen's necklace will arrive the morning of the gala. I spoke with Ms. Marge, they'll be keeping it in the vaults for the entirety of the evening. And it looks like I've got us a replica as well."

"He works fast, this one," Bullock tilted his head in Gordon's direction.

Conway grinned. "I love the idea that these guys will be painstakingly stealing a fake necklace."

Bruce thought he heard a soft thud from the kitchen and imagined that Alfred had just arrived with his bottle of merlot.

Gordon clapped his hands together. "Well, who wants to hear the plan?" He pulled out a stack of papers that Bruce recognized to be blueprints of the museum and spread them out on the coffee table.

Everyone gathered around, as Gordon pointed to the floor layout. "This is the vault floor. Harvey, you weren't with us, but it's the bottom most floor in the museum, let's see… yes, 3 floors beneath the lobby."

Harvey grunted.

"So, the Queen's necklace arrives the morning of," Gordon continued. "And stays here, in these vaults for the entire evening. We have an extra security guy in this room, but we won't need to be here."

"Not that it makes a difference, but why bring the necklace at all if it never goes on display?" Conway asked. "Just let the Queen keep it."

"No, it'll stick around for a few days in the museum's own display rooms before being transferred to permanent display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art." Gordon said. "Anyway, we won't be in this room," he pointed to the vault floor. "We'll be up here-" Gordon pulled the sheet for the event hall, which also pictured the roof. "Actually," he backtracked, pointing at Bruce, Maters, and Harvey, "You three'll be up here, keeping an eye on things, making sure everything stays calm. We want to make sure no one gets hurt, so you will each be assigned a man to follow, see to it that he finishes his job, and escort him out. Figuratively, of course. Just make sure he leaves the building without hurting anyone."

Gordon looked around, casting an almost guilty look at Bruce.

"And what will you be doing?" Bruce asked, sensing Gordon's reluctance to continue.

Gordon looked apologetic. "Sorry Bruce, Miles already called dibs on the action."

Conway grinned. "Sure did."

"Miles and I will be tailing the getaway car. We've got some CCTV footage of it. It's a van actually, gray, with tinted windows, we have the license plate as well. We plan to bust in there and grab the driver first. Then we'll nab each guy as they come out. We have a couple of back-up cops who will be in the area to help us out if we need. I know it was your idea Bruce, but we'd rather have you up in the hall. If things get complicated down in the van, it'll be a lot of paperwork to explain why we let you in on the action."

"No worries," Bruce said. He wasn't hurt by it and appreciated that Gordon had been thinking about him in making this decision. But he also knew that a conversation would be coming soon about where his relationship with police-work was going. He had been involved in much more dangerous projects over the previous two years, so if Gordon was starting to voice concerns about the legalities of their work arrangement, he couldn't imagine this would continue for much longer.

The sound of a key in the lock broke the momentary silence. Bruce looked up, confused, as he heard the front door open. There was a shuffle of footsteps and Alfred appeared in the doorway, holding a wine bottle wrapped in paper.

"Hope I'm not interrupting, mates. I've got chocolate cake and a delicate Merlot blend whenever you're ready," he said, smiling.

"Perfect timing," Gordon said. "We just finished."

"Ah, the man of the hour," Harvey said. "And the reason I came," he added to Bruce in a staged whisper. Bruce nodded distractedly, mind racing as he and the others headed out of the room. Hadn't he heard Alfred in the kitchen earlier?

They walked through the hall and into the kitchen, when Alfred, who had been at the head, came to an abrupt halt.

"Ah, Miss Kyle," Alfred said. "What a delightful surprise."

"Happy Birthday, Alfred."

As Bruce entered the kitchen, he saw Selina sitting at the table, a glass of milk in hand, the empty carton on the counter beside her.

"Selina," Gordon said, raising an eyebrow. "Nice to see you."

"Hey," she gave a little wave.

"Does she ever knock?" Maters asked, frowning.

"No." Three people spoke at once. Selina, Harvey, and Bruce had all answered.

A temporary silence filled the room.

"Well," Alfred said. "Let's bring out the cake, shall we?" He opened the refrigerator and brought out a chocolate cake with a thick layer of cream on top, and a thin strip of ganache over the cream, placing it on the table.

Conway whistled, taking a seat. "Nice."

Gordon, Maters and Bullock all went to take seats at the table, and Bruce paused before following suit. Deciding to take the bull by its horns, he slid into the vacant seat beside Selina.

"Hi, Selina."

"Hey."

It was the same kind of 'Hey' she had given Gordon, which was neither here nor there. It was not openly antagonistic, which was good, but also not particularly friendly.

Alfred passed around plates and wine glasses. He insisted no one sing 'happy birthday', preferring just to pass around cake and enjoy the conversation.

"No thanks, I'm heading back to the police station after this," Gordon turned down a cup of wine.

"Don't have that problem," Bullock said, handing his glass over. "I have the afternoon off."

Bruce sat, taking in the conversations starting up around him. Conway was listening intently to Alfred telling stories from his war days and Maters and Bullock were discussing their favorite whiskeys. Gordon glanced at Selina.

"How're you doing?" Gordon asked her.

She shrugged. "Not bad." There a was a brief pause. "I started physical therapy today."

"Oh? How's it going?"

"We'll see. But everyone thought I wouldn't be walking for another three years, so by those accounts, it's going well."

"How long before you're walking normally again?" Gordon inquired.

"The therapist today said she's very optimistic. She thinks I can be walking normally in six months. So, I'd say another two or three months."

Gordon grinned. "Where are you staying now?" he asked.

"At a friend's place," Selina said vaguely.

Bruce watched the conversation and noticed Gordon's slight frown. He assumed that Gordon suspected Selina was not telling the truth. The likelihood was that she was squatting at some vacated apartment in one of Gotham's more affluent neighborhoods.

"Have any plans, now that you're back in Gotham?" Gordon asked, changing the subject.

Selina seemed to be getting irritated with the questions. "Just want to get my leg working properly," she said, then added, "Maybe I'll get a job or something."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I was thinking of coming to work at the police station," she said, and it was clear at that point she was being facetious. "What about you?" She asked, the cutting edge to her voice only thinly veiled. "Doing anything around here?"

"I try," Gordon said, not taking the bait.

"Got everyone back in Arkham yet?" Selina asked.

"Eh. A good amount. About 75% of the escapees."

"What about that bozo who shot me?"

"Not yet."

"So instead you're trying to make sure the Queen's necklace doesn't get stolen?"

Gordon held up a hand. "First, Selina, we have people looking for Jeremiah. We're not the only cops in Gotham. Second, I think you'll appreciate the service we're doing. Roman Sionis is behind this heist."

The name didn't mean much to Bruce, who had only heard it in connection with the heist over the past few months. But Selina sat up straighter.

"Really? Sionis? He's back?"

"Apparently," Gordon said.

"Wow," Selina said, tone much lighter. "You do have your hands full." She even seemed impressed.

"Am I missing something?" Bruce asked.

"Roman Sionis was deep in with some of Gotham's criminal gangs years ago," Gordon explained.

Selina snorted. "He wasn't just in deep. People were scared of him. The Falcone's and the Bertinelli's had a much bigger reach and more connections, but when Sionis came in, they listened. That man's nasty."

"Exactly," Gordon said. "And we'll have him locked up in Arkham by the time the gala's over."

Selina took a swig of the red wine in her glass.

Gordon frowned in her direction.

"What?" She snapped. "I'm not underage."

"I know. You just don't strike me as a wine kind of person."

"Hanging out with Alfred for two years will do that to you."

Gordon finished his cake and stood up, wishing Alfred a happy birthday. He and Maters, who were returning to the station, left together. Harvey stuck around for a second piece of cake, and Conway, who also had the afternoon off, offered to drive him home. The two of them left and then it was just Bruce, Selina and Alfred in the kitchen.

Selina leaned back in her seat. "Well, I better get going as well," she said.

"Glad you were able to make it," Alfred said.

"Yeah, well, I couldn't miss your birthday," Selina said, standing up.

They walked her slowly to the front door and a comfortable silence fell over them.

It was almost as if things were okay between them, Bruce thought. And that was his new tactic. Selina couldn't get angry at him if he didn't say anything. The ball was in her court now. Instead, he enjoyed the comfortable silence that meant they were not at each other's throats as they approached the front door.

"Happy Birthday," Selina said, giving Alfred a hug.

"Thank you, Miss Kyle."

"See you around," she said, not in any specific direction, and Bruce took that to mean she was addressing him.

"See you around, Selina," he said.

"I can't believe you let Alfred make his own birthday cake, Bruce," she said, turning to look at him.

"I didn't," he replied evenly. "I made it."

"Oh." Selina seemed surprised. "Well, it was a pretty good cake." She turned, parting with a wave. The door closed behind her.

Bruce stared ahead at the closed door for a moment. Then he turned, and noticed Alfred with a big smile on his face.

"What?" He asked.

"Nothing," Alfred said, patting Bruce on the back.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: My apologies that this is late! We just moved houses in August and have had difficulties getting internet set up. Chapter 8 is almost finished as well. I should be posting that tomorrow and then hopefully back on schedule to be posting one chapter each weekend.**

 **thomsonnoah862: Thank you! I can't guarantee that that will continue forever, unfortunately.**

 **: Glad you enjoyed!**

 **Larry Boodry: Thanks! Really appreciate your review! Yeah, it seemed from the moment Bruce promised to stay with her and the doctors bring her into surgery, forcing Bruce to leave, the writers were already setting up Selina to be mad at him.**

 **Good theory, I hope to have a few surprises along the way as well... :D**

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CHAPTER 7

A few days passed by. Bruce was becoming more and more restless, always looking for something to do. Between pouring over his father's old books, swimming, and boxing sessions, he would occasionally catch Alfred gazing at him thoughtfully. But Alfred would always busy himself with something else when he realized Bruce had caught him staring. It killed Bruce that this was how Alfred had to see him: home, without anything to do, bored and restless. Less than six months ago, he had been at the height of the action in Gotham, rarely home, always busy with one thing or another. Boredom had never been a complaint until now.

But somehow, here he was, sitting in an armchair, pretending to care about the fall of Ancient Rome so Alfred would think he had something to occupy himself with. He flipped through another few pages, lost in thought about whether University might be a good option, when he realized he had been reading the same paragraph over again, barely paying attention to the book. He slammed it shut, annoyed. The idea of going through his father's library in its entirety had been enticing at first. Bruce imagined coming away from the endeavor a true intellectual. He had always been well-read, but the eclectic selection his father had accumulated would surely expand his horizons. The plan had failed in its execution. He had read some interesting books, but the vast majority of them were vapid, vague, long and tedious. Bruce found his thoughts drifting to the heist. He hadn't heard from Gordon yet, but he was curious to know which man he would be tailing. The gala was just under two weeks away and he was itching for more action.

The phone rang. Bruce stood up to get it, but the sudden stop of the phone mid-ring and Alfred's voice coming from the living room meant he had been too late. He sighed, dropping back down into the armchair, feeling useless. He couldn't even answer the phone fast enough. Bruce sat, listening to the sound of Alfred's voice, the pause, Alfred speaking again. Another silence, then Alfred said, "Right, we'll be over shortly."

Bruce raised an eyebrow, wondering what that was all about, but he stayed put. Sure enough, Alfred's footsteps grew louder as he entered the study.

"Master B," Alfred said, looking down at Bruce's splayed form. "The city council just called. They're looking for donors to rebuild some housing complexes in Gotham city. I told them we would sponsor two buildings. Thought you could get out of the house a bit anyway, so we're going to sign on it now."

Bruce clapped his hands together, standing up. "Great, thanks Alfred," he said, handing his book over to the Butler. "Mind saving me the spot?" He asked, reaching for his jacket.

"Certainly, Master Bruce," Alfred said, then paused. "Would you, er, like me to find it for you as well?"

Bruce looked up at Alfred, who was eyeing the closed book he had just been handed. "Oh. Damn. Never mind, you can just toss it on our way out," Bruce said, pulling the car keys from inside his jacket pocket.

Bruce flexed his fingers over the steering wheel as Alfred climbed into the passenger seat. He needed to get out. He glanced in the rear-view mirror as they pulled out of Wayne Manor, watching the mansion grow smaller behind them.

"Bruce." Alfred rubbed his hands together. "While we're out and about, I thought it would be a good time to discuss your growing… restlessness."

Bruce sighed, tightening his grip. "Yeah, we could." He didn't really want to discuss it, but he had felt the impending conversation for a few days now.

"I understand you've been a tremendous help to Detective Gordon over the past two years," Alfred said. "Multiple members of the police force have praised you highly for your initiative, as well as your work ethic."

Bruce said nothing, staring at the road ahead.

"Now, I suspect," Alfred continued, "that you have been finding it difficult not being needed, whereas before, your involvement was always critical."

Bruce appreciated in that moment Alfred's ability to get straight to the heart of the matter.

"Well, yes," he said slowly. "But you know, I've been thinking about what I want to do and even considered going for full police training, but somehow, I can't see myself doing that." That had come as an epiphany a few days ago. He had been asking himself why he didn't just get the necessary training to become a police officer when he realized the thought was not as appealing as it had once seemed. "There's so much bureaucracy involved - in getting warrants, making arrests, processing evidence – that by the time the paperwork has been dealt with, your guy is long gone."

Alfred frowned. "It's an unfortunate part of any man-regulated system. But there must be limitations in place to ensure due process and justice."

"That's only if you have criminals working in your system," Bruce grumbled.

"There are." Alfred said. "And even worse, morally ambiguous people who are neither here nor there. They would just as readily help an old lady across the street as they would steal her five-dollar bill if they thought they could get away with it."

Bruce slowly pulled into Gotham's industrial zone, passing by big mechanic lots and an old steel factory. "I want to do something useful. Something that can change the very fiber of this city. Make it a place where people are safe, and productive." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I really have no idea what though. Most things that this city could use are probably illegal. And whatever's not illegal is another tedious bureaucratic process."

"Well," Alfred said, as they finally passed the last of the car lots and entered the city commercial center, "I can't tell you what the answer to that is, but I can remind you that you are in a unique position. Not many people wanting to help the world have the resources you do. And there are many ways to make a safe, productive city. Better education, better housing, more efficient law enforcement, just to name a few."

Bruce wound his way through the large buildings that made up the more affluent business district in Gotham.

"Yeah, maybe I'll build a school," he said finally as they parked across from the City Hall building and got out. "And if that's not exciting enough, I can always go into police work." He slammed the car door shut, not really sure why that last line came out so sarcastically.

"Mr. Wayne, Mr. Pennyworth." A stocky, balding man stepped forward to greet them as they entered the council room, extending his hand. Bruce shook it, eyeing the marble pillars that surrounded them. A long, dark wood table sat in the center of the room with chairs situated around it, not unlike the layout at the Wayne Enterprises board room. A young dark-haired woman sat at the table, a large stack of papers in front of her.

"I'm Charles Kingston," the balding man adjusted his glasses, sitting down beside the woman. "And this is my secretary, Mandy." She smiled up at Bruce, who nodded politely in return and took a seat, along with Alfred, across from Kingston.

"We appreciate your generous offer and willingness to help," Charles said, getting right to business. "We have four uninhabited buildings in the Gotham City Center residential area that are absolute safety hazards. Exposed electric wiring, leaking pipes, a faulty supporting structure. The Ministry of Health has requested they be torn down for a year now, but we simply haven't had the funds."

"Or the time," the petite woman with raven hair sitting next to Charles chimed in, batting her eyelashes. "There's been so much to take care of, as I'm sure you can imagine." She smiled again at Bruce. He could not remember her name. She appeared to be a few years older than him.

"I'm sure," Bruce said, imagining that the city council had probably gone a similar route to the police, taking charge first of the immediate and life-threatening problems. It was a sign of progress that they were now tackling reconstruction of a housing development.

"Mr. Wayne," Charles said, "As the sponsor of two of these buildings, I'd like to tell you a bit about our plans." He went on, explaining the process of tearing down the buildings, erecting new ones in their stead, and the total cost estimation for such a project.

"When will you need this by?" Bruce asked when Charles finished, nodding to the stack of papers he assumed was for him.

"Well, the sooner, the better," Charles said. "Those buildings are becoming more problematic by the moment. We've got vagrants living in them and the Ministry of Health on our back."

"No worries," Alfred chimed in, looking at Bruce. "We'll have our legal team take a look at your papers, and if everything's in order, we'll have them signed for you by tomorrow."

"Excellent," Charles smiled, standing up. He reached over once more to shake both Bruce and Alfred's hands. Bruce noticed the secretary glancing eagerly in his direction.

"Er, Mr. Kingston-"

"Please, call me Charles."

"Certainly. Would you mind walking us out?"

The woman's face fell. Alfred raised an eyebrow, but Bruce was not in the mood for conversation with an over-enthusiastic fan. After gathering their things, Charles escorted them out, through the main hall, and toward the giant double doors. He seemed slightly confused by the odd request.

"Charles," Bruce said as he opened the door. "We'll pay for all four buildings. If you'll send us the extra paperwork, we'll have everything for you tomorrow."

Charles beamed. "Thank you, Mr. Wayne. Much appreciated. That's incredibly generous of you."

"My pleasure."

Bruce and Alfred exited the building, the big double doors swinging slowly shut behind them.

Alfred glanced at Bruce, brows raised. "What an unexpected streak of generosity," he said, mildly amused.

Bruce said nothing.

"Really didn't want to talk to her, did you?" Alfred asked.

"Wasn't in the mood," Bruce muttered.

A chorus of voices caught their attention as they walked down the stairs. A small, but sizable crowd of people had gathered at the foot of the stairway. Some held posters, some were chanting. Many appeared homeless.

One of the signs read 'YOU HAVE YOUR OWN HOUSES – DON'T TAKE OURS'.

"What's that all about?" Bruce asked.

"It appears they are protesting the very buildings we just sponsored." Alfred said.

"Why are they protesting? The buildings are dangerous. It's a public service to have them rebuilt."

"I'm sure that is not how they see it," Alfred said.

Bruce paused at the base of the stairway, looking around at the protesters. There were not so many of them, probably about 50, but he noticed at least one reporter amongst the crowd, interviewing demonstrators.

One older, unkempt gentleman stood a little off to the side of the crowd. He was clearly homeless, missing buttons on his plaid shirt and pulling a cart of all his belongings behind him, glaring up at the city hall doorway. Bruce felt a flicker of resentment stir up inside him. He was in an irritably pensive mood to begin with. He had hoped that a donation to a worthy cause would cheer him up, but seeing these people demonstrating against the reconstruction of buildings hazardous to their safety and health pushed him over the edge. He approached the older man, sidestepping Alfred before his butler could stop him.

"What's your name, sir?" Bruce asked the homeless man.

"Nicholas."

"Do you live in those buildings?"

"No." The man shook his head.

"Then why are you protesting?"

The man gave him a cold, hard stare. "Because I could be. Might have friends in those buildings. They've no right to take our homes just because they want to build big high-risers and make money off 'em."

"You know those buildings are safety hazards," Bruce said, exasperated.

The man spat on the floor beside him. "Lies! They just want an excuse to kick us out!"

A number of people were staring, looking at them in interest. The reporter was also watching. Bruce frowned, reflecting briefly that Gotham's problems ran much deeper than a city plan could fix.

"Listen," Bruce said loudly, addressing the crowd. "If you know anyone living in those buildings, let them know I'll personally have them transported to shelters in Gotham and basic supplies provided."

Feeling satisfied that he had offered a reasonable solution, Bruce began to leave, when someone shouted, "What's it to you, you self-serving moron!"

Bruce turned to face the speaker, a man a little older than himself. He was thinner than Bruce, face dirty and arm covered in tattoos. "I know who you are," the man sneered. "You're Bruce Wayne. You live in a mansion. What's it to you where they all get placed, so long as they don't come live in _your_ house." He spat out the last words.

"I'm just trying to help," Bruce said calmly. He felt unusually collected for someone being yelled at. "Do you need a place to stay, sir? I'm happy to help out in whatever way I c-"

Bruce never got to finish his sentence. The man leaped forward, face screwed up in anger. The glint of a steel blade flashed before Bruce's eyes as the man lunged at him.


	8. Chapter 8

**4EverAGallagherGirl: Thank you! Here it is, hope you enjoy.**

 **BraveBananna: Enjoy! Thank you for the review! Maybe not as dark as you imagined...**

* * *

CHAPTER 8

"What the hell is this?!"

Bruce barely had time to look up as Detective Maters stormed into his kitchen, followed by an apologetic-looking Gordon and an angry Alfred.

Maters growled, slamming a newspaper on the table. The front-page caption read ' _Bruce Wayne Attacks Homeless'_ , with a big picture of Bruce's face plastered across the paper.

Bruce looked wearily from Maters to Gordon to Alfred.

"Really!" Alfred said indignantly. "What did you expect him to do? Stand there and let the man stab him with his bloody knife?"

"Why," Maters barked, ignoring Alfred. "Is your face on the front of every newspaper in Gotham? Do you know what this could do to our investigation? Do you realize you may have compromised our entire operation?"

"Relax, Caleb," Gordon said, holding his hands up calmly. "I'm sure Bruce did what he had to. And I don't think anything has been compromised yet."

Maters glared at Bruce, who exhaled deeply, rubbing his forehead.

"Listen," Bruce sighed. "I'm with you. That was certainly not the intended outcome."

"Why are you going around fighting homeless people?" Maters demanded.

"He's not 'going around' fighting anyone!" Alfred responded angrily. "And if you're going to barge into our home, the least you can do is be courteous!"

Bruce appreciated Alfred's support particularly because his butler had not been very encouraging in the immediate aftermath of the event. Alfred seemed to think Bruce ought not to have engaged the protesters at all, telling him that he could not solve everyone's problems. And the issue was, Bruce agreed with him. He had seen the offense Tag had taken at being offered college tuition and felt he should have stayed away from offering that kind of financial help to people he did not know.

It had been a quick fight, if you could even call it that. Bruce had sent an uppercut to the man's wrist and swept his legs out from under him with a swift kick. The knife dropped as quickly as the man had. Someone offered to call the police, but Bruce had no interest in pressing charges against the homeless man that had attacked him. He and Alfred left soon afterwards, but Bruce remembered the reporter in the crowd and imagined that was how his face came to be printed on every newspaper in the city.

Gordon raised an eyebrow at Maters. "Come on, Caleb. Let's have a civil discussion."

"You have it, then," Maters waved his hand dismissively.

Gordon sighed, looking at Bruce. "Listen. This is the story, Bruce. No one faults you for what you did."

Maters gave a cynical grunt that Gordon ignored. "You were obviously acting in self-defense and that's fine. But we can't ignore the repercussions of this – no matter how blameless you were."

Bruce stared ahead, saying nothing. He knew what was coming. It had been coming for months, though this had obviously accelerated the inevitability.

"The fact is, Bruce," Gordon continued, brows furrowed together. "That with your face on every newspaper, you're much easier to spot. Where only one person may have recognized you when you went out, now fifteen will. And that's not acceptable as far as Tag's safety is concerned."

"I'm with you," Bruce said stoically.

"You're out." Maters snapped. "We've worked too long on this to let you jeopardize the job because you don't know when to keep your nose out of other people's business."

Alfred glared at Maters. Gordon rubbed his temple. "That's not what we're saying, Bruce. I can't justify your continued work with Tag for obvious reasons. But I don't see any reason you shouldn't help us at the gala with the heist. You're going to be there anyway, it will hardly be suspicious. And while I think it would be best if you lay low for a while, once the gala is over and Sionis is in jail, you're welcome to continue your work with us at the station."

Maters snorted. Bruce raised an eyebrow in his direction. He appreciated Gordon's offer, but felt the time had come to squash this before it dragged on for too long. "Thanks, Gordon. Listen, I'll help out at the gala, but after that, I think it's time I moved on to other things. I might be off to University or something."

Gordon gave him a long, hard look, before reaching over to place a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, Bruce."

"No worries. I get it. I would have done the same thing."

Bruce escorted the officers out, and returned to the kitchen, where he took a seat, resting his elbows on the table and pressed his palms into his forehead.

"Right." Alfred exhaled. "Well, you think they'd be a little more grateful to someone who's worked with such devotion over the past two years."

Bruce looked up with a tired smile. "Don't worry about it, Alfred. Really. I'm okay." He rested his head in his hands once more. Somehow, he really was okay. He didn't know where he was going. The hollow stagnation inside him was still there. But he wasn't upset by the turn of events. Things were okay.

The corner of the newspaper lying on the table caught his eye. He shifted in his seat, pulling it closer, and read the article under the main caption.

 _Bruce Wayne, billionaire and owner of Wayne Enterprises, knocks homeless man, Timothy Alvareck, to the floor Thursday after a heated scuffle outside Gotham City Hall._

Bruce grunted. The statement was objectively true, but also missing the point. He continued reading.

 _Wayne, who is rumored to be funding the construction project of Square 4 Housing in downtown Gotham, was leaving City Hall midday when he clashed with protesters demonstrating against the demolition of those same buildings. Alvareck spoke up against Wayne's inconsideration for the homeless people currently living in the set-to-be-torn-down apartments when things got heated. A fight broke out, leaving Alavareck on the floor._

A fight broke out? That made it seem like Timothy Alvareck had not attacked him with a knife. And what was that about Alvareck speaking up against Bruce's inconsideration for the homeless people? If only Alvareck had actually done that, and not ran at him with a knife cursing him out, they would not be here.

 _Wayne is reported to have offered to move people currently living in those buildings to shelters as well as provide them with basic supplies. Alvareck spoke to our reporters Thursday, saying, "It's typical of the rich to think they can just uproot people – real people – and shift them around however they want so they can get on with their business deals. We're just pawns to be moved in their games."_

 _Witnesses at the scene claim that Alvareck may have instigated the fight, calling Wayne a 'self-serving moron', but also say he deserved it. "He's much more than just that," said Patty Blinsk, spokesperson for Gotham's Homeless Foundation and witness at the scene. "He's ignorant about the real issues the people of Gotham face. He could kick you out of your house and go back to his mansion without realizing the irony of it. But, you can't really blame him. When you're born with a platinum spoon in your mouth, it's hard to think about anything other than yourself."_

Ah. Gotham's Homeless Foundation. Patty Blinsk must be new there, Bruce thought. Because he had made a donation to their organization for three years running.

 _The buildings, claimed to be a safety and health hazard by the City Council, have been awaiting demolition for over a year now, but the project has been consistently put on hold due to a lack of funds. Sources at City Hall say Wayne is in talks with them to finance the project and construction will begin immediately once everything is official._

" _We don't bloody care what you've got to say, do we?" Alfred Pennyworth, butler and spokesperson for Bruce Wayne said when we reached out for comment. We were also told to 'mind our own bloody business' and 'get our facts straight'._

"That's libel, that is," Alfred said, reading over Bruce's shoulder. "Mind you, I probably shouldn't have cursed at them on the phone."

Bruce grunted.

The phone rang. It had barely rung a second time when Alfred picked it up. "Gotham Gazette, is it?" He said skeptically. "Yes, I _would_ like to comment on the story that ran this morning. There are a few blatant lies and misrepresentations I would like to go over." Alfred swept the newspaper off the table. "Yes, let's start with that headline."

Bruce got to his feet, gave Alfred a little wave, and exited through the kitchen door that lead out to the Wayne Manor gardens. Despite being summer, there were clouds overhead and an unusually cool breeze. It seemed like it might rain.

He let his feet carry him across the lawn, lost in thought. Somehow, over the past few weeks, something had changed. Alfred was right, he did need to do something that would make him feel needed, necessary. The thought of university was always in the back of his mind, but he didn't know that he would get much out of the experience. He was certainly interested in learning more, always, about the world, but he couldn't see a degree leading to anything. He was interested in science but did not want to go into the sciences. And he was not about to spend four years learning useless subjects like Philosophy, Art or Literature. Though subjects of interest, there was nothing he wanted to do with them. Police work had been the option hanging on his coat rack, waiting to be used as a back-up plan. But somewhere along the way, between the police protocol requiring paperwork be done and guidelines followed while many criminals got away and the often-boring routine of a police officer's life, that option had become considerably less appealing.

A brief thought flashed through his mind of involving himself in his family business. Alfred was right. He had a lot of resources that most people did not. If he focused on expanding Wayne Enterprises, he could selectively fund causes that would bring good to the world, not just to Gotham. However, though intriguing, the idea still didn't sit well with him. He didn't just want to be a third-party doing good in the world. The useless, good-for-only-his-money Bruce Wayne. He wanted to be in on the action. And, oddly enough, the thought of fighting global problems did not appeal to him as much as fixing Gotham did. Here he was, in his city, the place he had grown up in, the place he had lost so much in. If he could fix Gotham – well - he felt that more than anyone, he was in a place to fix it.

The summer heat had brought drops of perspiration to his forehead, yet the cool breeze was refreshing. The sky darkened as clouds closed in overhead, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

Wayne Manor had expansive lawns that really seemed to go on forever. He walked on for a while and turned with the path to head towards the greenhouse. Ahead, beyond the greenhouse, but before the big stone wall that marked the end of the Wayne property, was a mound on what was otherwise flat land. Bruce approached the small hill, wondering what it could be. Stories of a well on the property came back to him and he wondered if this was it. He thought it curious that he had never noticed it before, after 20 years on the estate. He walked forward, coming to stand at the base of the mound, and took two more steps to the top. Sure enough, a circle of stones lay at the top. It appeared to be covered in dirt, which made sense, as the well had been filled in years ago. He placed a foot tentatively over it, and when all seemed solid, brought his other foot on it too. The ground seemed to sag beneath his feet and he looked down, realizing there were planks of wood under the dirt beneath. It began to drizzle. A drop of rain landed on his nose. He took another step to the center of the well.

CRACK.

The ground gave way beneath his feet suddenly and he fell through. A pain stung the side of his face as he wildly grasped at the pieces of broken wood above him. He managed to grab on to a splintering plank before that too broke and a sharp pain pierced his knee. His foot had slammed into the floor. He looked down, realizing that the hole was only about four feet deep. Packed sand lay underneath him. He stood up slowly, foot throbbing, looking at the boards that had broken under his weight. Most of the wood had collapsed when he fell. His head now came above the well opening. The plank that he had stood on had rotted through completely, and the surrounding pieces of wood that hadn't broken were splintered and swollen. Bruce was surprised that he managed to step on it at all without falling through.

Something wet trickled down his face, and he realized he was bleeding. His head had knocked into the wood as he fell and left a nasty gash down his cheek. Bruce looked down at the floor he was standing on. It looked like the sand was not packed in properly when the well was first filled and had slowly sunk over the years. He placed his hands on the stones surrounding him, hoisting himself up, wrists and knee throbbing. He pulled himself out and over the stone wall. It started to rain, drops splattering on his face, mixing with the blood and running down until he could taste it in his mouth. Giving one last look at the broken, splintered wood, he turned, heading back to the mansion. It was pouring now, rain soaking his clothes. But he walked slowly back through the downpour, unable to shake the feeling that something, or perhaps nothing, really significant had just happened.


	9. Chapter 9

**Larry Boodry: Here she is! Just warning you, there'll be another Selina-centeric chapter shortly, but after that, things will focus on the heist mainly and we won't see as much of her for a bit.**

 **4EverAGallagherGirl: Thank you! Yes, the well scene was supposed to pay homage to Batman's origin. I have a bunch of stories planned if there's interest. If I continue with these, Batman himself probably won't show up for another few stories, but I think you'll see Bruce taking big steps toward that even in the next story. Here, he's mostly just broody and lost, not sure what to do with himself.**

* * *

CHAPTER 9

The door clicked as Bruce turned the handle to the kitchen, stepping inside. He was drenched, dripping water onto the floor tiles. Alfred was still in there, back turned, no longer on the phone, but jotting something down on a notepad. Bruce opened a kitchen drawer, rummaging around for a first aid kit. He knew there was one in there somewhere.

"Well, I spoke with Gotham Gazette," Alfred said, back still turned. "Cleared up a few things, and there should be a full clarification in tomorrow's newspaper. Also did a little PR work and called Gotham's Homeless Foundation. Doubled our donation to them from last year, so if they have any complaints, they certainly won't now." He finished writing something down on the paper and turned, taking in Bruce's soaked and battered appearance for the first time. "Good God! What happened to you?"

Bruce winced, finding the first aid-kit and pulling it onto the counter. "Fell," he said. "Down the well on our property."

"Isn't that filled in?" Alfred asked, rounding the counter to get a better look at the gash on Bruce's face.

"Not very well," Bruce said. He took a seat on the stool. "The sand's sunk over the years and the boards covering it rotted through. Didn't realize, and fell in. Wasn't very deep though," he added, as Alfred inspected the cut. "Only about three or four feet."

Thunder sounded outside.

"Right," Alfred said, pulling an alcohol swab from the first aid kit and ripping the packet open. "I'll add that to the list of things to be repaired around here once I've fixed you up. This will probably sting," he added. Bruce closed his eyes as Alfred cleaned the wound, his skin burning when the alcohol made contact with the open flesh. The pain seemed to radiate to his core, oddly warming him through despite his sopping clothing.

"Almost done," Alfred said when he finished dabbing antibiotic ointment on. He began applying butterfly bandages. Lightning flashed outside the windows. "Good as new," Alfred said, closing the first aid kit with a snap. "How about I make us tea while you get some dry clothes?"

Bruce pulled a sweater over his head, eyeing the reflection in his bedroom mirror. His hair was still wet and hung over his eyes. He hadn't cut it in months. The butterflies on his face held the gash mostly closed, though a thin red line still ran down his cheek. There were bags under his eyes and he thought he looked a little pale. His throat felt scratchy. The sky was dark outside, though it was only early afternoon. Bruce left his room to head down the staircase to the kitchen, pushing his wet bangs out of his eyes.

"Ah, Bruce," Alfred called as he came into the kitchen. "Why don't you come sit in the living room with us?" Alfred placed biscuits on a tray already holding a teapot and cups.

Bruce frowned at Alfred's choice of words, following him toward the living room. He noticed there were three cups on the tray Alfred was holding. "Who-" he began, but he had a feeling he already knew the answer. Sure enough, Selina was in the living room, hair wet and tousled, sprawled in an armchair, her legs hanging over the armrest. She was reading that days' paper.

"You can't leave well enough alone, can you Bruce?" Selina asked seriously. "You know, I'm living in that Square 4 Housing complex. I can't believe you're destroying my home."

Bruce raised an eyebrow at her, taking a seat on the couch.

She grinned. "I'm joking, you selfish ultra-high-net-worth individual." She frowned at the newspaper. "That's what he called you, right?"

"Very funny, Selina," Bruce said, pouring himself a cup of tea as Alfred set the tray down.

"If that's the same Timothy Alvareck I knew back in the day, he's full of it. Manipulative little liar." Selina looked up at Bruce, narrowing her eyes at the cut on his face. "Nice bandaids. Pretty."

"Thank you," he said seriously.

"Your tea, Ms. Kyle," Alfred said, handing her a ceramic cup of steaming eucalyptus. "And some gauze," he pulled a white roll of bandages from his apron pocket and handed it to her before taking his own seat on the couch.

"Ah, thanks, Alfred," Selina said. She set the cup of tea down and began bandaging her left wrist with the roll of gauze. "Slipped," she explained to Bruce, wrapping her hand up. "In the rain. Just around the corner from here. Sprained my wrist when I fell." She didn't explain what she had been doing 'just around the corner', and Bruce did not ask.

A brief silence fell over the room as Selina finished wrapping her hand. Bruce drank from his mug, the hot tea soothing against his throat. The sound of heavy rain pounded against the windows.

"How's the physical therapy going?" Bruce asked curiously.

"Uh… good," Selina didn't seem convinced. "It might be a little longer than I expected though." She pursed her lips, indicating that she did not want to talk about it. She picked up her tea, taking a sip and scrunched her nose with distaste. She set the cup down firmly on the table. "Oh, that's… good," she lied, glancing at Alfred.

"It's a luxury blend and excellent for your health." Alfred appeared amused. The rain grew heavier, hammering on the glass windows. "Would you listen to that downpour? Beautiful, isn't it?"

Selina snorted. "I hate the rain. If you go outside, you get wet." She tilted her head, considering, and picked up her tea again to take another sip. "I suppose it's nice if you're rich and live in a warm mansion without a leaking roof," she mused. She didn't say it with anger, or bitterness, just a statement of fact – something she had just realized.

Bruce watched her, a sad feeling rising in his stomach. He never forgot, certainly, that she had lived most her life on the streets, but sometimes he would catch a glimpse beyond what he knew street-life entailed. He didn't feel sorry for her and he never had – she was certainly strong enough to take care of herself – but it saddened him to think of a life where rain meant you had to find a new place to live.

Selina noticed him staring and shifted in her seat. He looked away.

Silence fell over the room once more. Alfred took a long sip of his tea, looking at the two of them. Bruce didn't know what to say. He was glad Selina was there, not fighting with him, even making jokes, but it was still an odd dynamic. He didn't know where they stood exactly in their relationship. Was she still upset with him? It helped having Alfred in the room. He was easy company that they could both be themselves around, and his presence meant that they did not have to deal directly with the complications in their relationship.

Yet.

But Bruce preferred it this way for now. Between being kicked off the police force and falling into the well, he'd had enough drama for one day.

"Uh… How's your police work going?" Selina asked, breaking the silence.

Bruce grimaced. "Not great. I've been acting as an intermediary between our plant and the police, but with my name plastered over every newspaper in Gotham," he indicated the paper Selina was holding, "I'm just going to lie low for a while. I'll be at the gala to help out, but then…" he glanced at Alfred, not sure what to say. "I guess I'll have to figure something else out."

"Sucks," Selina said, shaking her head. "Cops. They always turn on you, right?"

Bruce gave a wry smile. "Probably for very different reasons."

Selina grinned. She set her mostly untouched cup of tea down on the table and made to stand up.

"Thanks for the tea Alfred. And the bandage. I'd better get going though. Have another physical therapy session today."

Alfred nodded his head in acknowledgement of her thanks.

"Bruce. Will you walk me out?" Selina asked.

Bruce looked up in surprise. "Course," he said.

Alfred glanced at Selina. "Right." He said. "I'll go call you a cab." He exited the room.

Bruce and Selina stood for a moment, standing on opposite sides of the coffee table.

"Shall we?" Selina asked, tilting her head toward the door.

"Mmm." Bruce nodded, stepping around the coffee table to escort her out. They left the living room together, Selina limping alongside Bruce. He wasn't sure if he had just never payed enough attention before, but he thought her limp seemed the slightest bit heavier than the last time they had seen each other and wondered if she had hurt more than just her wrist in the fall.

"I just wanted to thank you," Selina said. "For lending me Alfred those two years. It must have been hard for you without him." She said simply, looking up at Bruce.

He said nothing, wondering if this was a set up. He felt suddenly on edge again. What did she mean by that? Was it a condescending remark about how Bruce couldn't live two years without a butler, or a genuine comment recognizing that, for her, Bruce had given up the closest thing he had to family? They walked down the hall and stepped outside onto the covered porch. It was still pouring rain, but they were able to have a clear view of the road without getting wet while they waited for Selina's taxi.

She smiled. "You know, he really helped me through some tough times. When I thought I might not walk again, he was always the one telling me not to listen to the doctors, pressing them to look for other options. Always optimistic. And then after the surgery, always positive, encouraging." She grinned. "And I've developed a taste for fine wines because of him. And Egyptian cotton linens. But don't tell him his taste in tea still sucks," she winked conspiratorially. "To be honest, I think I've grown a little spoilt over the past two years. It's hard, adjusting to Gotham city life after Swiss chocolate and Turkish cotton towels."

Bruce grunted. "Where are you staying, Selina?"

She pursed her lips. "Do you really want to know? There's a maintenance room in the Concord Towers that's got a lot of supplies."

He drew his brows together in a frown. Concord Towers was one of the wealthier sections of Gotham, but he couldn't imagine that their maintenance rooms were very accommodating. "Really? Selina, you don't have to be there. You know you're always welcome here."

She waved his offer away. "I know, but it's just temporary. A friend and I are planning to rent a place together soon."

Bruce looked skeptical. "You know I can tell when you're lying."

She smiled. "Not always, Bruce. Not always."

They watched the rain come down in silence for a few minutes. A yellow cab finally pulled into their driveway.

Selina said goodbye to Bruce and even gave him a quick hug before leaving. Bruce stayed outside, leaning against the wood barristers, watching the yellow taxi pull away in the torrential downpour. When the cab finally drove out of sight, Bruce turned to head back inside. He opened the front door, realizing as he stepped through it that it seemed each time Selina had left through here, they had been on better terms. The thought struck him that he could probably count the times Selina had ever used his front door on both hands.

"Taxi arrived?" Alfred asked as Bruce made his way into the kitchen.

He nodded.

"You alright?" Alfred asked, looking up at him.

Bruce was always impressed with Alfred's ability to read him. "My throat's just been hurting. I think I may be coming down with something."

"Off to bed," Alfred said sternly.

"It's only four o'clock in the afternoon," Bruce protested.

"When you need sleep, it doesn't matter what time of day it is," Alfred said wisely.

Bruce deliberated. He had literally nothing better to do, and if he was coming down with something, he probably should rest it off. He headed toward the stairs.

"I'll bring you an Aspirin," Alfred called. "Your body is probably just reacting to the change of weather."

"Or the fact that I have nothing to do," Bruce mumbled.


	10. Chapter 10

**Sorry for the delay, a lot going on. But next chapter is already half-way written, so I hope to get it to you by Friday.**

 **Larry Boodry: Thank you! Yeah, their dynamic is great. I find myself partial to both the 'love' and the 'hate' parts of the classic 'love-hate' relationship they have.**

 **angellcakes23: Nothing too serious, don't worry. It just helps propel this and the next chapter to where I need them to go. Thanks, I really try take these relationships seriously, so this story is not just about Bruce and Selina, but Bruce and Alfred, and Alfred and Selina, and frankly everyone and everyone, but some in more subtle ways than others.**

 **AUSTINROX5: Glad you're enjoying! Appreciate the suggestion, but I prefer to deal with these characters a little more delicately, I find that their chemistry comes from the subtlety.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 10**

Bruce groggily woke the following morning to a sharp rapping on his door.

"Come in," he mumbled, looking around in a daze. He was in bed. The sun was streaming in through the window. He had probably just slept 16 hours.

"Morning, Master B," Alfred said, opening the door, and stepping into the room, a tray in his hand. "How are you feeling?"

Bruce squinted at Alfred, noticing he was carrying poached eggs, a glass of water and an Aspirin, as if his butler already knew the answer to that question.

"Not much better," Bruce admitted. "Maybe a little worse. My throat is about the same, and my whole body is aching."

"Mind you, you did fall down a well yesterday," Alfred set the tray down beside Bruce's bed.

"Oh." Bruce had forgotten about that. He felt mildly feverish.

"I knew this was coming," Alfred said brusquely. "You've been worked to the bone the past two years, and now your body has been given a break, it's taking a rest."

Bruce raised an eyebrow at Alfred's conjecture.

"Don't give me that look. What you need right now is rest."

"I just slept 16 hours," Bruce argued, rolling out of bed.

"You don't need to be sleeping to rest," Alfred scolded. "In a hurry to get somewhere?"

Bruce's shoulders dropped. He leaned back against his bed.

"Come now," Alfred said, not unkindly. "Why don't you sit in the living room, I've got something for you."

* * *

Bruce sat on the sofa, leafing through the photo albums Alfred had given him. There were multiple photos of his parents around the house but seeing so many pictures of them in one spot, concentrated into three albums, was a different experience. Alfred had stumbled across his parents' wedding album and thought to look for some more. He had found a collection of photos of Bruce as a baby, as well as another album filled with odds-and-ends from Bruce's childhood until the age of twelve.

He started with the wedding photos from thirty years ago. His mother looked very elegant in a long-sleeved lace gown, staring wistfully into the distance in some photos, in others examining her bouquet of red roses, hair pinned up, pearls dangling from her ears. His father, Thomas, looked very handsome in a burgundy suit. His parents were already older in these photos. They had gotten married rather late, both in their mid-thirties. Then there were pictures of them together at the altar. They looked happy. Not smitten. Not madly in love. But happy, almost content.

Bruce wondered what their relationship had been like. From what he remembered they had always been politely and warmly affectionate. He did not recall any blatant displays of love – no kissing, no passionately intense gazes – but then again, he had only been twelve when they died, it was possible he had missed that in the innocence of youth. But it brought to mind one long-forgotten memory. When he was eight or so, he had found his mother crying in the kitchen. She had not told him why she was crying, but he knew that his dad had been away on a business trip for over a month at the time. He hoped that they had really loved each other.

He came to a close-up of their hands, a large diamond set on his mother's fingers, along with a wedding band. He wondered how long they had known each other for. He wished he knew more about them.

There were some people in the wedding photos that he did not recognize. His grandparents on both sides had been dead for a while, but he found a picture of what must have been Martha Wayne with her parents, and a picture of Thomas Wayne with his mother. Bruce's father had an older brother Henry who was still alive and living somewhere upstate, but they hadn't spoken in ages. Henry was pictured in a few of the photos though, looking much younger. He had white hair now, not the thick black hair pictured in the photos. Martha had been an only child.

"Alfred," Bruce called as he heard the butler's footsteps passing by the living room door. He was beginning to feel warm again. Alfred looked into the room expectantly.

"You called, Master B?"

"How did my parents meet?" Bruce shifted into a reclining position, feet up, and pulled a couch pillow over. It felt cool against his hot skin.

Alfred tilted his head thoughtfully, coming to stand opposite Bruce on the couch. "Well, let's see. Your father had just finished medical school when they met. Your mother was raising money for charities in Gotham and asked him out to a business lunch. Your father was smitten and kept telling her he might have a deal go through, so they could meet up again and he could pledge more money to her charities." Alfred smiled. "Your father donated a lot of money before he finally plucked up the courage to ask her out."

"Did they love each other?"

"Certainly. They were quite a pragmatic couple, the two of them. But they did love each other. Very much."

Bruce nodded slowly. "How long did it take for them to get married?"

"Well, your father courted your mother for four years with charity donations before finally asking her out. And they dated for two years before getting engaged, and it took another two years to get married. Probably would have gotten married sooner, but your dad was going through a bit of a crisis. He was a bit of a 'playboy', you might say. It took him a while to come round and be ready for commitment. And your mother, well, she was always worried people thought she was dating your father for his money. But they both got over their fears eventually and tied the knot." Alfred suddenly frowned in concern. "Why the interest? Not thinking of popping the question yourself?" He asked suspiciously.

In his feverish state, it took Bruce a moment to realize what Alfred was talking about.

"What? No. No. G-d, no." He put a hand to his head. He had not ever thought about marriage seriously. He always assumed it would happen to him one day but had never been in a place to consider it for the obvious reason that he would need someone to consider it with. And while Selina was the only female he really had any kind of relationship with, they were far from being ready for marriage. Not individually and certainly not to each other. Not where their relationship was holding. "I don't think either of us are quite ready for that," he said slowly.

"Good," Alfred said. "Because I don't either. And I know you're in a bit of a crisis yourself, but I don't think marriage is the solution. Not to this problem," he shook his head.

Bruce pursed his lips. "Did my dad ever wonder what to do with his life?"

Alfred considered. "Come to think of it, he certainly did. Probably a bit older than you, he was. Spent a lot of time partying, hanging out with girls, and then he got into a serious car crash. Nearly killed him." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I think that shook his world a bit. He went abroad, visited some plague-stricken countries, a few Buddhist Temples, did a bit of meditation. Came back, went straight to medical school." Alfred frowned. "Actually, come to think of it- no. No, it wouldn't still be around."

"What?" Bruce asked.

Alfred shook his head. "No. I thought - but it wouldn't still be - that was years ago."

Bruce waited for Alfred to continue, but his butler was somewhere else, muttering to himself.

"I wonder if I could – would they even remember?" Alfred stared pointedly into the distance, before turning to look at Bruce. "I'll be back. Just need to check into it. Could be interesting." He turned on his heels and left the room.

Bruce stared after him for a moment in confusion, then sighed, pulling the second album toward him. He leafed through it, looking at pictures of his mom in the hospital, holding a wrapped bundle that must have been him. She looked pale in the pictures, makeup-less, tired, but happy. Baby-Bruce had a head full of tousled dark hair, but was sleeping in most of the pictures. His dad made a few appearances in the album. Unlike what one might expect, Thomas Wayne was not beaming; he did not seem particularly overjoyed at the birth of his son. He wasn't unhappy, certainly, but his smiles seemed strained, almost forced. Bruce recalled that he had been born in a last-minute c-section, one that had been very difficult on his mom. He wondered if that had anything to do with his father's weary smiles.

 _Briiinnggg._

The phone rang on the wood stand beside the couch. Bruce reached over to pick it up.

"Hello?"

"Bruce. It's Jim Gordon." There was a brief hesitation. "Listen, I've got the name of the guy you'll be tailing. Derek Runyen. He's the one who'll be grabbing the necklace and getting it down the drain pipe."

Gordon explained briefly how it was necessary to keep an eye on Runyen the entire time without getting too close. There would be an officer tailing each man, and a few extras in the room for safety, but they would not have any earpieces or communication devices because it would look too suspicious. But Gordon explained that with the necklace being a mock-up and the actual arrest being made outside the building, it shouldn't be a problem.

"Your job is to keep an eye on Runyen, and make sure he doesn't hurt anyone. He shouldn't, but if anything odd happens, you tackle him and keep him down."

"Got it," Bruce said. He couldn't believe that the heist they had been building up to for the previous few months would be coming to an end soon. Only four more days. He was still in a feverish groggy state, but calculated that he should be at 100%,or at least 95% by the time the gala rolled around on Thursday.

Bruce and Gordon finished speaking and Gordon made to hang up.

"Bruce?" Gordon said suddenly.

"Mm?"

"I, uh, am sure you already know, but just wanted to reaffirm that we've appreciated your help tremendously over the past few years."

"Thank you," Bruce said sincerely. They exchanged good-byes and hung up.

Bruce lay back on his sofa, steadily feeling worse. It felt like there was a rock lodged in his throat every time he swallowed, and his skin was burning with heat. He pulled the final album toward him and opened up to the first page. He found himself staring at the first picture of a 3-year-old Bruce, his mother, and father, all holding cotton candy at an amusement park. His head lolled to the side and he jerked awake, realizing he had just drifted off. He turned the page, looking at a beaming toddler Bruce with cottage cheese all over his face. After a few moments where his eyelids kept drooping, he finally gave in to the exhaustion and rested his head on a couch pillow, falling asleep.

* * *

 _Briiingggg._

Bruce jerked awake in surprise, looking around. He was still lying on the sofa, a photo album on the floor next to him. He noticed someone (Alfred) had draped a blanket over him, which was helpful, because he now felt cold shivers instead of burning heat.

 _Briiingggg._

The phone was ringing. Bruce reached over blearily to pick it up.

"Hello?" His voice was thick from just having woken up.

"Hey – Hey, man. It's me, Tag." Tag spoke with his usual nervous, jittery tone.

Bruce frowned. Why was Tag calling him? Had no one at the police station told him they weren't working together anymore?

"Uhh…" Bruce started to speak, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "Tag. You know we're not working together, right? I think you can speak to Gordon about any updates. Or at least he can direct you." He looked at his watch. It was 12:00 PM.

"What? Oh. No. I'm not – I'm not calling about that. I was just, uh - well, yeah. Listen, man. I guess – I mean, I know it's kind of awkward – especially after our last conversation," he paused, chuckling nervously. "I guess, I was wondering – is that offer of you paying for my college tuition still open?" The last sentence came out in a rush. It took Bruce a minute to decipher it in his hazy state.

Tag began to speak. "You know, obviously if it's not, that's totally okay. I would get that. I told you no, and then I come back asking for it again, so I could see why-"

"No. No, Tag. I'd be thrilled to pay for your college tuition." Bruce shook his head, trying to clear it, to make sense of what was going on. This was the last thing he had expected from a call right now.

"Yeah? Really, man? Wow, thanks." Tag chuckled again, excitement mingled with nervousness. He rushed on, eager to explain. "Because, y'know, I just broke up with my girlfriend, and, uh, well, I just moved out, and now I'm staying with my sister, and she lives in this tiny apartment and-" He paused to take a gulp of air. "And I was thinking, y'know, about ways I could get a nice apartment. For me. And for my sister. And I kind of realized – like, all the things I could do now would be pretty short term, but if I got some kind of education, then maybe, like, maybe long term I could actually have a future and like, y'know, wouldn't be living month to month and-" he was speaking fast, clearly nervous.

Bruce broke in, still trying to come to terms with it all. He did not understand what he had missed. Is that not what he had been talking about from the beginning? "Of course, Tag. You're quite intelligent. I think you have a lot to give."

Bruce could almost see Tag nodding eagerly on the other line. "Yeah, man, I really think I do," he said earnestly. "You know, I think also I'll get accepted pretty easily, like, I have a good background and everything." He continued, rambling on. "Like, we just found out - me and the guys - that cutting the alarms wouldn't be as easy as we thought. It involves this new technology that puts up an electronic perimeter around the alarm triggers, so if anyone even tries to get at the alarm triggers, they've already tipped off security, and everyone thought that was it, y'know? But it turns out, I thought about it, and I figured out a way to momentarily trick the outer electronic perimeter into inactivity by feeding it signals similar enough to the ones it's already working with that will not only bypass the outer triggers but will make the actual alarms dormant." Tag spoke all this rapidly, almost in one breath and added proudly, "Y'know, I think I'm the only person in a thousand-mile radius that knows how to work these."

Bruce was struggling to concentrate. He didn't see how that would get Tag into college, as impressive as it might be. "Wow, Tag, that's great." He paused, then said quickly, before Tag could launch into another tirade. "Listen, Tag. I'm, uh, actually not feeling great right now. Why don't we talk after the heist and we can set up your tuition and everything then?"

"Oh." Tag sounded a little disappointed, as if there had been more he wanted to say. He recovered quickly. "Yeah, that's cool man. I'll call you afterwards and we can talk then. Thanks again!" He hung up.

Bruce set the phone down, feeling completely baffled. That was a total unexpected turn of events. What had just happened? He muttered something about people not making any sense and rested his head once more on the sofa. He was sleeping in seconds.

* * *

 **Next chapter: Bruce and Selina finally sit down and talk...**


	11. Chapter 11

**angellcakes23: I was just trying to give a glimpse into his parents' lives. I always thought his dad was maybe a more stoic character and that's where Bruce gets his steely exterior from.**

 **AUSTINROX5: Thanks for the suggestions! Glad you're enjoying! I would obviously love if there was a spin-off about Bruce and Selina, but frankly it probably won't happen as I imagine they'd rather go with a new show that has a possibility for better ratings. Spin-offs often attract only a fraction of the original views and Gotham's viewership was not strong to begin with. I have some thoughts on how to continue this, let me know if there is interest.**

* * *

Bruce slept through most of the afternoon. He woke to have dinner and a steaming cup of tea with Alfred before heading back to bed for the night.

His irregular sleeping hours meant that he was awake before sunrise. He felt, if anything, worse than the previous day. His throat ached severely every time he swallowed, and he now had a full-blown fever of 102*F.

He spent some time pacing the hallway on the second floor, no longer tired but not sure what else to do, before Alfred found him standing at the top of the stairwell resting his head against the cool metal banister.

"All right there, mate?" Alfred asked. He didn't sound concerned, but sympathetic.

Bruce lifted his head. "Mmm."

Alfred grinned. "Come on down, let's get you a cup o' tea. I reckon you'll be feeling better by the end of the day. If you're up in any case, I have something you might be interested in."

Bruce followed Alfred down the stairs, frowning. He had not remembered Alfred's odd behavior until now and wondered if this was at all related. They made their way into the kitchen, the first rays of sun streaming in through the window. When they were finally both settled with a steaming cup of lemon and honey tea, Alfred carefully pulled a folded thick pamphlet from his breast pocket and set it on the table between them. It was clearly old, yellowing with frayed edges.

"I thought your father had kept this," Alfred said. "Had to go through a bunch of his old papers but I found it last night, right after you went to bed."

Bruce picked up the pamphlet with interest. On the front page, in bold, black, hard-to-read cursive, said 'Academy Virtute Dei'.

"University?" Bruce asked.

Alfred shook his head. "Not quite. Your father stumbled on this place during his travels abroad. It's a very exclusive institution. The only way to get in is through recommendation by a former student or teacher. And each student or educator can only give one recommendation."

Bruce stared at the insignia on the front. It was a black flamingo, staring sharply out at him, eye open, harsh, fierce and purposeful. Bruce felt a chill run up his spine that had nothing to do with his fever.

"Your father found it quite by accident. From what I recall, he was hiking in the mountains at night when it started to rain. He found a young man who'd fallen a long way down the side of the mountain. Rescued him, brought him to shelter. Turns out it was a student at this school." Alfred took a long sip of his tea. "They were impressed, and wanted to take him on, but your dad had already decided to pursue a career as a doctor. It wasn't an easy decision, but your father came back to start university. That," Alfred indicated the pamphlet, "is a recommendation note. Your father was only there one month, but they still considered him a student. I'm frankly astonished I didn't think of this sooner. Haven't remembered the place in thirty-five years."

Bruce opened up the worn pamphlet. The old lettering was faded and in narrow script, making it difficult to read. But the more he read, the more he was intrigued. The first thing the pamphlet spoke about was its instructors. Each instructor, they wrote, was a master in his field and a leading expert on the subject at large. Their criteria for educators was very regulated, requiring at least 40 years' experience to qualify.

The core focus of this 'Academy Virtute Dei' was complete mastery of self. Although this included meditation, pushing psychological boundaries and becoming emotionally aware, the principal subject was mastery of the body. The pamphlet went on to explain that although thoughts and emotions were important, even crucial, to gain control over and understanding of, they were non-tangible and success in those area was very hard to quantify. The body on the other hand, in its raw physical state, could be measured to an exacting degree in its levels of progress and brought to extreme discipline. Thus, it was the focus of their course. Such 'mastery of the physical', as the pamphlet termed it, included studying and isolating each muscle in the human body, finding one's core balance to enable the efficient and effective use of the body in any given position. Such self-discipline was designed to optimize all the body's resources without wasting any unnecessary energies or operating muscle groups needlessly. It was a three-year program, with the possibility to bring in subject-matter experts on topics of the students' choice, for an optional fourth year.

"Thought you might want to think about it," Alfred remarked, finishing his tea.

"Yeah," Bruce said slowly, closing the pamphlet carefully to look at the flamingo on the front once more. Something about the image scared him, the bird appeared to be an animal of awe and anger. "Yeah, it's… interesting." And it was interesting. The idea of total self-discipline captivated him to no end. But, (and it was a big 'but'), where would this lead? What would he do with this?

Alfred seemed to guess what he was thinking. "Life will lead you where you need to go, Bruce. But if you have the proper tools for it, you'll be prepared when it does. And this," he pointed at the pamphlet. "This could give you a damn good set of tools. Think about it, alright?"

Bruce nodded. Although still sick, he was also feeling useless after sleeping most of the previous day. Alfred let him wash up their tea and breakfast.

He spent the rest of the morning on the sofa, looking once more at the photo albums, but found himself pulling out the pamphlet and reading it over. There was a section confirming its exclusivity. Indeed, only former students or former teachers (no one actively involved) could recommend new pupils.

By midday he had read the pamphlet cover to cover at least four times. His pounding head was making it difficult to concentrate.

Alfred found him sitting on the couch, head dipping as he kept falling asleep, and ordered him to his room to rest. Bruce made his way upstairs, hoping his fever would be gone by the time he woke up.

* * *

 _Knock. Knock._

Bruce rolled over, grumbling in his sleep.

 _Knock. Knock._

He lay still, trying to remember where he was. With much effort, he opened his eyes slowly, dreading the light that was bound to make his aching head ache worse. But it never came. The room was dark, with the lights off and the curtains drawn, so he couldn't even tell what time of day it was. He still felt feverish, his head hot and hands clammy.

 _Knock. Knock._

There it was again. Someone rapping on his door. Ah, that was what had woken him. He rolled over, sat up, and adjusted his pillows.

"Come in," he called, expecting Alfred.

The door opened slowly and a figure stepped in. Bruce's eyes were still adjusting to the dark and he couldn't make out who it was.

"Wow, it's dark in here."

"Selina?" Bruce asked, confused. What was she doing up here?

"You always keep your room pitch black?" she asked, opening the curtains nearest him with one sweep.

He squinted his eyes, expecting the bright sun to stream in, but the sun had already set. Selina went around his room, opening the curtains. The dim lights of neighboring homes and the faint glow of the moon and stars shed some light into the room.

"What?" Bruce asked, trying to recall her question. "Oh. No. Not usually. I had a splitting headache earlier and the light was making it worse." He swung his legs out of bed.

"I forgot, these are for you," Selina said, holding out a cup of water in one hand and two tablets in the other. "Alfred asked me to bring them up."

"Thank you," Bruce squinted at her, then reached out to take them. He downed the cup of water in one gulp, then swallowed the pills whole. His head was starting to clear. "Selina, what are you doing here?"

She shrugged. "I heard you weren't feeling well. Thought I'd come by and check up on you."

Bruce rubbed the sleep from his eyes, momentarily taken aback. That was a genuinely thoughtful thing of her to do. He didn't know if she had ever done something so willingly nice for him. He looked up.

"Thank you, Selina. I'm touched."

"Hey, I didn't know you had a balcony up here," she changed the subject, pointing to the glass doors behind them. She opened them, allowing a refreshing cool breeze to drift in from outside. It felt good against Bruce's feverish skin.

"Come on," Selina titled her head in the direction of the balcony and stepped out.

Bruce pulled a sweater over his head before following her. It was a small space, at least for a mansion, surrounded by a marble railing, empty, except for a small circular table and two chairs. Selina limped toward them, taking a seat.

"It's nice out," she said.

"Mmm," Bruce sat in the chair across from her. He didn't know if it was the painkillers or the cool air, but his headache was beginning to ease off. His skin felt clammy still though, and a cold sweat broke out. He wondered if his fever had just broken.

"Fever, huh?" Selina asked. "That sucks."

Bruce nodded, staring out over the railing at neighboring properties. "How'd you hear I was sick?"

She shrugged. "I've got my sources."

Apparently that answer was supposed to suffice, although Bruce was pretty sure Alfred was the only one who knew he was sick. And maybe Tag.

They sat in silence for a few moments, looking out over Wayne Manor. Bruce felt his head was a lot clearer and realized that he had never asked Selina about the two years she had been away.

She smiled up at him expectantly, waiting for him to start a conversation. Her hand rested on the tabletop, finger tapping nervously.

"How've you been?" He asked.

She shrugged. "Mostly just getting used to Gotham again. It's changed a lot." She frowned. "And I've been dealing with my leg. The therapist says it'll be another three months before I'm walking properly." She gave a short sigh, as if coming to terms with the fact that a therapist might finally be right about her prognosis. "But at least I'll be walking again. No limp. Back to normal. After two _years_."

Bruce nodded, considering. Selina did not seem antagonistic. She had come to his house to see how he was doing. He didn't know he would get a more opportune time to ask about those two years. He pressed on.

"Selina, what was it like?" He asked. "All that time you were away?"

A dark shadow passed over her face. She gave a short, cynical laugh. "It was hell."

Bruce waited. A few seconds passed. A few more passed. Just when he thought she might not continue, she spoke.

"Those first few months were awful. I didn't know what to do with myself. That was before the surgery." She seemed to be speaking in slightly disjointed sentences, as if reminding herself what had happened, organizing her thoughts out loud. "I was angry. Not really processing much. In denial, probably, but living with the reality that I couldn't use my legs. I don't think I ever felt so… lost." Her fingers stopped drumming on the table and her hand rested there, still. "Then we heard about the surgery. And something changed. I felt like I had been granted a reprieve. Like, if I behaved, maybe I would be allowed to walk again. And then I had the surgery. And I could feel my legs. But I couldn't move them." She snorted suddenly. "You should have heard those doctors, speaking in whispers around me as if I couldn't hear them. _'She'll probably never walk again'. 'No, don't say that, if she follows the prescribed regimen, she might be walking in five years.' 'Well, let's get her stared with the therapy, we'll see how far that can take her.'"_ Selina mimicked their words with resentful mockery.

"But you proved them wrong," Bruce said kindly.

"I did," Selina nodded thoughtfully, almost as if she didn't believe it herself. "I don't really know how. The first session was torture. I couldn't do anything they wanted me to. And then, in my second session, something kind of clicked into place, y'know?" She tilted her head, lost in thought. "I guess I realized that I had to walk again. That it was killing me. And if I couldn't walk again and walk again fast, I would… die." She said the last sentence simply, as if it was obvious. "And in that moment, I knew I would be able to do it. I had to. And just then, I was able to move my toes." Selina smiled suddenly. "You should have seen the looks on their faces. Total, utter disbelief." She began tapping her fingers on the table once more. "And that became my incentive, my motivation. Watching them look on in astonishment every time I exceeded their expectations. And every time they told me it would still be years before I could walk, that spurred me on, made me more determined to prove them wrong."

Bruce reached across the table, resting his hand over hers. "You're pretty amazing, Selina."

She looked up at him, opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again, pursing her lips. They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Selina finally spoke again, voice quiet.

"You know what scares me?"

"What?" Bruce asked.

"What if – what if the surgery hadn't worked? Or there hadn't been a surgery? And I was still stuck in that dumb wheel chair?" Her eyes flickered over Bruce's face, searching for an answer to her own question. "I don't think I would have been able to handle it, Bruce. I think I would have died. And that terrifies me."

Bruce stared at her and squeezed her hand. "I think you would have been able to handle it," he said, not thoroughly convinced himself. "You're a strong person." That, he was sure of.

Selina returned his gaze, shaking her head darkly. "I don't know, Bruce. I don't know."

"But you're not there," Bruce said, brows creased together. "You _can_ walk. And you will be able to again. Properly. I don't think you need to get hung up on the 'what-if's." He squeezed her hand once more, finally withdrawing his own. Selina's fingers started tapping on the table again.

"What about you?" She asked. "What was it like in Gotham?"

Bruce gave a small smile. "Compared to what you went through, my life was boring." He thought about it for a moment. "I ran around Gotham with James Gordon. We put criminals in jail. Transported a lot of people to the hospital. Broke up fights. Did paperwork." He paused. "Yeah, pretty sure that's it."

"I'm sure it was more interesting than that," Selina said with a smile.

"It was," Bruce admitted. "But I'll tell you those stories a different time."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Well, right now I'm just focusing on getting through the heist. The gala is on Thursday. Only three days away. And then I have to figure out what I'm doing with my life." He sighed.

Selina arched a brow. "You're rich," she said. "Why don't you just do what all rich people do? Buy a yacht, crash it, and then buy another one?"

Bruce grimaced. "I'm, uh, hoping for something a little more meaningful, Selina. And a little more long term," he added. "I was thinking of going to University," he said tentatively, testing the waters. It saddened him to think that mere months after she was getting back, he might be off to study for four years. But then again, he didn't even know if he wanted to go to the Academy Virtute Dei and didn't mention anything about it. For all he knew, the academy was closed. It seemed ancient.

To his surprise, Selina didn't seem upset that he might be going away for four years. "Yeah," she said slowly. "I'm not quite sure what I'm doing either. Y'know, I never really considered higher education. But after the past two years, it occurred to me that if it's something I want, I could do it. Which University are you considering?"

"Uh-" Bruce was saved from answering that question when the balcony door opened and Alfred stepped out.

"My sincere apologies for interrupting," Alfred said, looking down at them. "James Gordon is on the line downstairs. He says it's urgent."

Bruce frowned, glancing at Selina. What could be so important at this time of night? It was past office hours. Surely any business could wait until the following morning?

"I'll be right down," Bruce said. Then, "Selina, would you like to stay for dinner?"

She stood up, brushing herself off. "Uh, no. Thanks though. I had to get going anyway." She rushed on, trying to explain herself. "There's this place I was going to check out tonight. An apartment. Cheap rent."

Bruce suspected she was lying but was courteous enough not to say so. "Of course," he said simply. They headed back into his room, then out, into the hall and down the stairs, toward the front door.

"Don't worry. You take that call. We'll be in touch," Selina said, limping forward to open the front door.

"See you around, Selina."

"Bye, Bruce," she offered a wave and smile before stepping out. Bruce pursed his lips, heading to the living room where the phone lay, hanging off its receiver. He picked it up.

"Gordon? What can I do for you?"

"Bruce?" Gordon spoke. "We need you down in the station now. Just got a call from one of our highway patrols. They just picked up Tag's body on the side of the rode."


	12. Chapter 12

BraveBananna: Thank you so much! I really appreciate it! I put a lot of effort into making the characters realistic and the story coherent. Thanks again! Really means a lot!

AUSTINROX5: Where'd you hear that? I did a search, but nothing with that kind of info came up. Happy to hear you enjoyed. I already have this story planned out, but I hope you'll keep reading, even if I'm not using your ideas. Why don't you write a fanfiction? You seem to be really good at getting out ideas!

angellcakes23: Glad you enjoyed!

Larry Boodry: Absolutely! Good read! Just so you know, there'll be another Bruce/Selina interaction next chapter, but then things will focus on the heist. But we'll see them together a bit during and after the gala.

* * *

CHAPTER 12

Bruce drove to the police station, mind racing. From their very brief conversation, he got the impression that Gordon suspected foul play in Tag's death. A whole slew of questions arose in his mind. If Tag's death was indeed non-accidental, that put their whole investigation at risk. Sionis and his men would be prime suspects. And the implications of that… If Sionis had killed Tag, there would only be one motive: he had discovered Tag was a plant. And the worst thought, the one that kept coming back to haunt him, was that maybe he had caused this. Bruce's hands clenched on the steering wheel. Had he? Had someone seen his face on the front page of a newspaper and put two and two together? Mentioned something to one of Sionis's crew?

It was unlikely, Bruce told himself. He and Tag had not been seen together after his face had been plastered over every newspaper in Gotham. That's why Gordon had taken that position away from him. To protect Tag. But, a nagging voice in his head reminded him, Tag had called him just yesterday. Maybe someone from the gang had gotten Tag's phone. That wasn't unreasonable. And realized that Tag had contacted Bruce Wayne, the rich kid that had been in and out of the police station for the past two years.

No. Bruce shook his head sharply, taking a deep breath and pushing away the guilt. There was no use speculating about this, trying to find ways to blame himself, when even Gordon didn't have all the details yet. He had followed every procedure, every protocol laid before him. If Tag had died in spite of that, it was just that. In spite of it.

When he arrived at the police station, there seemed to be more cops around than usual for the evening shift. Bruce searched for Gordon, scanning the faces of those present. He noticed Maters off to the side, looking through some papers with a scowl on his face.

"Oh, excuse me. Pardon." A female cop with red hair bumped into Bruce on her way out.

Maters looked up, noticing Bruce there for the first time. His scowl deepened, and he slammed the papers he was holding on the desk and marched over.

"What are you doing here, Wayne?" Maters barked.

"Gordon asked me to come in," Bruce replied calmly.

"Did he now? Did he?" Maters asked furiously, looking around as if to spot Gordon. "Well, I'll give him a piece of my mind, I will. Inviting non-police personnel into highly classified investigations. He can't do-"

"Hey. Everything alright?" Harvey Bullock had stepped forward, brow raised at Maters.

"It is, Harvey," Bruce said. "I was just looking for – ah. Here he comes now."

Gordon was making his way toward them, a deep crease in his forehead. "Bruce." He frowned, looking down at a stack of papers he was holding.

Maters turned on him. "Why is this kid here?" He growled. "He has no relevance to this investigation at all. You can't just-"

"Bruce is here, Caleb," Gordon interrupted smoothly, "because he is the last person on Tag's phone log. Let's see…" he glanced down at his notes. "Yes, a call to Bruce Wayne yesterday at 11:59 AM. Bruce, will you come with me?" He tilted his head in the direction of a private office.

Maters eyes widened in surprise. He appeared momentarily stunned. But he recovered quickly, taking a few long strides to catch up with Bruce and Gordon, who were already half way to the office.

"You mean he's been contacting Tag? After we explicitly told him not to?!" Maters spluttered angrily.

"No, Caleb. Tag contacted Bruce. There are no calls from Bruce's number to Tag after Bruce stepped away from this investigation." Gordon reached the door, pulling it open. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I would like to find out why Tag wanted to speak with Bruce."

"I'm coming," Maters barked. "I don't trust the boy." He pushed past Gordon into the room.

Gordon sighed in exasperation, giving an apologetic look to Bruce. "If you will," he said, gesturing inside. Bruce stepped in after him.

They took their seats, Gordon on one side of the desk and Bruce opposite him. Maters chose to stand - well - pace, really, behind Gordon.

"Bruce, would you fill us in?" Gordon asked, taking out a notepad and pen.

"Of course," Bruce replied. "Well, uh, on one of the occasions Tag and I met, I offered to fund a university degree for him."

Gordon didn't lift his head from his note-taking position, but his brows shot up. "Oh?"

"Yes. Tag called me yesterday to accept that offer."

Maters glared suspiciously at Bruce. Gordon nodded. "Go on."

"There's not much more to it than that. He said he had just broken up with his girlfriend and was living with his sister in her one-room apartment. He thought he could make a better life for himself with a degree." Bruce tried to remember the murky conversation. He had been half asleep.

Gordon jotted something down. "You said he had just broken up with his girlfriend? Did he seem depressed?"

Bruce was familiar with this line of questioning, to gauge the possibility of suicide. He shook his head. "No. He seemed excited actually, about college. He really thought he had a lot to give."

"And you're sure that's it? He didn't mention anything else?"

"No, I don't think so."

"You really believe him?" Maters growled.

"I do," Gordon said simply. He turned back to Bruce. "We're still waiting for the coroner's report. It was a motorcycle accident, but we obviously suspect foul play, so we have him checking for everything, poisons, drugs, substance abuse. And we have an expert looking over the motorcycle for parts that have been damaged or tampered with." He stood up, looking at Maters. "Caleb, I want the girlfriend and sister added to the list of suspects. Especially the girlfriend. Let's bring them in and get statements from both."

Maters did not look happy about it, but he nodded, turned, and exited the room.

"Sorry about that," Gordon said, rearranging his papers. "You know what he's like when he's under stress."

Bruce gave a small smile. He did know. Although he and Maters had never actually worked together before, Bruce had seen him multiple times yelling at subordinates when things were hectic. He did not ever seem to yell at anyone of higher status than him though, as far as Bruce recalled.

"Well," Gordon said, looking up at Bruce. "That's it for tonight, but, you were planning on sticking around until we were done with this investigation, right? You'll be here in the morning?" He gave a weary smile. "With Tag out of the picture, not only can you help, but we'll probably need a few extra hands around here."

"Of course," Bruce offered.

Gordon pat him on the shoulder. "You're a good man, Bruce."

* * *

He was back at the police station the following morning, fever gone, and throat no longer hurting. It was raining again outside.

"Morning." Harvey Bullock was leaning against his desk, drinking a large cup of coffee. "Jim's just in that way." He gestured to a closed office door behind him.

Bruce thanked Harvey and stepped forward, about to knock on the door. Before he could, it opened, and Jim Gordon stepped out, almost colliding with Bruce. He looked up in surprise.

"Ah, Bruce. Perfect timing. We just got a call from the coroner's office. We're heading over now."

Maters and Miles Conway exited the room Gordon had just left. Maters was apparently taking the high road now, not even giving Bruce a first glance. They all headed outside to the police car and drove the nearly ten-minute ride to the coroner's office in an almost somber silence, with rain pounding the windows.

When they arrived, Bruce got out, hoping they would not have to see Tag's body. That sort of thing generally didn't bother him, but the thought of seeing Tag's once alive, now lifeless body didn't sit well with him. They entered the building and made their way past the receptionist into the main office. A thin man with graying hair and spectacles looked up as they entered. He stood to shake the hands of everyone present and introduce himself.

"Dr. Steve Rankin," he said, finally reaching out to shake Bruce's hand. He paused mid-shake, eyes coming to rest on Bruce's face. Dr. Steve Rankin frowned. "Bruce Wayne?" He asked curiously.

Bruce nodded.

"Yes. Yes. I recognized you from the papers the other morning." He still held Bruce's hand tightly.

"Did you?" Bruce asked easily.

"What? Oh. Oh. Yes." Dr. Rankin unclasped his hand, seeming to realize that it was rude to stare.

"Well, yes, I have your report for you, I do." He puttered around, reaching for a folder on his desk. He leaned against the desk and leafed through the folder, pulling out a sheet of paper and placing it on top of the stack. His eyes flicked over the page as he read aloud. "Firstly, it appears Montague Durand was thrown several yards from his motorcycle after crashing into a cement barrier."

It took Bruce half a second to realize Dr. Rankin was talking about Tag, who's name, he realized, could not have actually been 'Tag'.

Dr. Rankin frowned disapprovingly. "He was not wearing a helmet and sustained several substantial traumatic injuries to the skull, which would have rapidly caused death. There was also a collarbone fracture, wrist fractures and a few ribs broken, as well as a deep laceration on Mr. Durand's right arm." He paused, looking up. "All this is typical damage seen in motorcycle accidents, and although you asked us to do a complete examination, we didn't find anything that seemed out of ordinary given the cause of death - which was, of course, craniocerebral injury."

Gordon stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Is it possible some of these injuries were present before the crash, or caused by something other than the crash?"

"Possible? Certainly. Likely? No."

"How likely is it?" Gordon asked.

"99% chance the injuries were the result of the accident," Dr. Rankin said, lips pursed.

"So, still a 1% chance?" Gordon asked.

Dr. Rankin appeared insulted. "Detective Gordon, I couldn't tell you with certainty one way or another from a legal standpoint. But I will tell you that 99% in medical terms is as good as 100%."

Gordon raised an eyebrow. "So your professional opinion on the matter is that Tag died of injuries sustained during his motorcycle accident."

"Correct."

"And the toxicological reports?" Gordon asked.

"All negative. No alcohol, no other substances."

"Right." Gordon nodded thoughtfully, looking around at the others. "Very well. Thank you for your time, Dr. Rankin."

They shook hands. Gordon indicated to the others to follow him back to the police car.

"He seems to think it was an accident," Maters noted as they stepped out of the building.

"Yeah, but we can't rule out damage to the motorcycle," Conway said. "It's possible Sionis messed with the brakes or something."

"That's where we're going next," Gordon said, opening the car door. "To the mechanic. He told me he would have at least preliminary reports this morning."

Bruce said nothing, somewhat surprised by the results. He had just assumed that Tag had been killed intentionally. It hadn't even occurred to him that it could have been an accident. But, he noted to himself, it had been raining on and off the past few days. And if Tag wasn't wearing a helmet (which he believed was certainly possible), and the roads were slippery, well, an accident wouldn't likely end in Tag's favor.

They pulled up to the mechanic and exited the car. It was still raining. Everyone stepped out of the wet downpour, into the garage, where two guys were working on a car engine. Both were wearing hooded sweatshirts. One of them looked up.

"Yo, Tommy!" He called over his shoulder. "The cops are here!"

A man came forward from the back of the garage, also wearing a sweatshirt, hood up.

"Hey," he reached out to shake Gordon's hand, and stepped forward to give Conway a half hug. Apparently, they knew each other. Tommy nodded in acknowledgement of the others but did not try to hug or shake hands with anyone else.

"How're you doing, Tommy?" Conway asked. "He's my cousin," he added to Bruce.

"Good. Good. Not bad." Tommy nodded his head distractedly, glancing into the back corner of his shop. He appeared uncertain if he should go on with telling them how he was, but seemed to decide against it. "Uh, I, uh, got your motorcycle this way," he gestured to the back corner of the room, where Bruce could make out a the form of a bike.

He noticed that Tommy seemed a little nervous, but this was not unusual behavior. In their work over the past two years, Bruce had observed a distinct pattern in the people they had dealt with. The affluent of Gotham always seemed to treat the police as their employees, almost with disdain. They wanted to know why their electric lines were still down and why so many stores weren't open - while the police force was dealing with much larger criminal activity in Gotham center. The impoverished of Gotham treated the police with disdain too. But with them, it was a hateful distrust, a deep resentment.

It was people like Tommy though - working, middle-class citizens – that had mixed reactions. Most were friendly, but in a reserved way. They treated the police with respect, but also fear.

"So," Tommy led them over to the motorcycle. "I, uh, had a look at this. The front's obviously messed up, but I took everything apart as best as I could, checked everything to see if they were running properly."

Bruce, Gordon and Maters walked around to the front of the bike, inspecting it. The whole front was smashed in, headlight shattered, wires sticking out every which way. The front tire was missing entirely.

"Firstly, I'll tell you that everything was on the lower side of functional," Tommy continued. "Normal wear on the brakes. Tires worn past the recommended tread-wear by the manufacturers - but they always give conservative estimates, so his tires were operational - still higher-risk, though. Chain was flexible all around, but a couple of rust spots. So, bike was not in prime condition." He paused, wiping some grease from his forehead. "I didn't see anything out of place that would suggest someone had tampered with it, y'know? Everything I just told you is from normal wear."

Gordon nodded slowly. "Nothing out of the ordinary? No impact from the back or side that would indicate someone had rammed him?"

Tommy shook his head. "Nope. The back has barely any dents in it at all. I've seen bikes in better condition get into worse accidents. Like, 99% sure it was an accident."

"Mmm." Gordon looked up at Tommy. "So, basically 100% sure?"

Tommy looked confused, not sure if he was being tested. "Ah, no. Just 99%."

"Where's the front tire?" Bruce asked.

"Came off in the crash," Tommy said. "Totally flattened, tore into a couple of pieces."

"Is that not unusual?" Bruce asked.

Tommy shrugged. "Not really. The front hit a cement barrier, but the bike kept going, flipped over onto the pavement. And as I said, the tires were not in optimal condition. It would not have taken much to damage them."

Gordon held out his hand to Tommy. "We appreciate your time. Thank you."

Tommy nodded. "Sure thing."

They made their way back to the police station, everyone speaking their thoughts out loud. Gordon pointed out that they couldn't rule out murder; it was possible Sionis had not made impact, but had perhaps swerved at Tag, forcing him off the road. Maters, however, thought that all the evidence pointed to an accident. Conway agreed with him. He said they had a lot of evidence supporting an accident and none at all supporting murder. But, Bruce, noted, it certainly made their jobs easier if it was an accident. They didn't have to recalculate their plans, with the heist only two days away.

He couldn't help feeling that this was an elaborate set-up, that somehow Sionis and his crew had intercepted Tag, realized he was a mole, and killed him.

"But why," Conway asked, "Would they kill him now? Why not keep him on until after the gala? They're not dumb. They know they would be the prime suspects if Tag turned up dead. I'm telling you, it sounds like a sadly timed accident."

Bruce thought he had a point. Why would Sionis kill Tag if they were still trying to steal the necklace? Wouldn't it be better to at least use him as a hostage? Killing Tag had put all the cops on high alert.

They entered the police station, still talking about how to proceed.

"I'm not comfortable going ahead with this now that they've killed Tag," Gordon said.

"Allegedly," Conway reminded them.

Gordon shook his head. "There are innocent people at the gala. Until we get some evidence suggesting they didn't murder Tag, we have to shut the gala down."

Bruce knew how hard a call that was for Gordon to make. If they shut down the gala, the chances they would catch anyone were close to zero. It would send a clear signal to Sionis that the cops were onto them. They had been working on this for months.

Maters was pacing. "We've been working on this for too long to shut down the operation," he growled.

"I don't have a choice, Caleb," Gordon said resolutely. "I'm not putting anyone else's life in danger for this."

"Give us some more time," Conway said. "Let's look into this for another couple hours. We'll see if we can poke around, get any witnesses, stats or info that suggest Tag wasn't – or was – murdered."

Gordon let out a deep breath. "Fine."

* * *

They got to work immediately, calling contacts in and around Gotham city, anyone they were able to think of who might have a connection to Sionis. Maters and Conway even left to go out and meet a few people in person.

Conway returned first, about an hour later, with no news. No one he has spoken to had heard or seen anything. Gordon was considering calling the gala organizers to tell them to cancel the event when Maters walked in, breathing heavily.

"Got some info," he said.

Everyone looked up with interest.

"Sionis," Maters said, marching forward. "Has just recruited another techie to take Tag's spot. Got the info off of one of our local informants. He said Sionis offered a lot of money to anyone who could find him a skilled tech guy ASAP. And they just found one." He appeared immensely pleased with his work.

Gordon raised an eyebrow. "So…?"

"So, they clearly plan to continue with the heist. They've gotten another guy to disable the alarms."

"Well, there we go," Conway said, turning to Gordon. "Isn't that exactly the kind of proof we were looking for?"

"Not necessarily," Gordon said slowly. "Who was the informant?" He asked Maters.

"Chad Parker," Maters said. "Reliable guy."

Gordon sighed. "Yes, he is, but isn't it possible they fed him that information to keep us off their scent?"

"Come on!" Conway said irritably. "How would they even know to get that info to Chad? Pretty sure no one knows he's a police informant. And Chad definitely wouldn't feed us false information." He clenched his fists. "You've got to let it go, Gordon. All the info we have points to an unfortunate accident. No sign of tampering. And listen," he said, slowly calming down. "I'll admit, I agreed with you. Until we had evidence suggesting Tag was not murdered for being a plant, it was reasonable to cancel the gala. But now we have solid evidence that they plan to continue with the heist." He shook his head darkly. "Listen, it's even possible that they did kill Tag. Maybe they didn't like him, maybe they were worried he would rat them out. If they did, we can't know. But we do know that Sionis and his men are planning to continue with the heist. Which means they _could not_ have known Tag was working with us."

"Exactly," Maters agreed.

"And, no offense, Gordon," Conway said. "But have you even looked into other suspects yet? Tag's girlfriend? His sister? I'm not… accusing you of anything, I'm just saying that your perspective is skewed. You want to think it's Sionis because that's what we all thought initially. So that's what you've been pursuing. But you've found nothing yet. Nothing."

Gordon looked at the two of them, thinking. Finally, he said. "You're right. We'll continue with the gala. But I'm stationing extra cops everywhere at the museum."

Conway grinned, reaching over to high-five Maters, who did not reciprocate. "Back on!" He said. "We get to kick bad-guy-butt!"

Gordon frowned. "Your perspective is clearly skewed too, Miles," he said disapprovingly. He turned toward his office.

Bruce paused for a moment, then followed after him. "Detective Gordon, are you sure? I don't like this," he admitted. "I feel like something's really off."

Gordon held up his hands. "Well, I think they're right about the evidence. It does seem to suggest they didn't know Tag was working with us. But," He shook his head darkly and gave a deep sigh. "I don't like it either, Bruce. I really don't."


	13. Chapter 13

**AUSTINROX5: Thanks! Glad you enjoyed.**

 **angellcakes23: Don't worry, Maters will get his comeuppance.**

 **saidahb: Thank you!**

 **Next Chapter: The action begins!**

* * *

CHAPTER 13

Bruce got back to Wayne Manor late the following evening. There had been a lot to do at the police station with the gala only one day away. He had attended a three-hour meeting on the logistics of the heist and now had several photos of Derek Runyen, the man he would be tailing, in his pocket.

Derek was a very large, nasty looking man. He was muscular, as well as bald, with nose piercings and a large tattoo up his neck. His eyes were a striking green.

With the added security concerns after Tag's death, Gordon had invited an extra dozen cops to the meeting. Their jobs were unspecified, but they would be attending the gala as plainclothes officers just in case. In case of what, nobody really spoke about.

Bruce had then spent the rest of the morning getting ahold of the fake necklace that would be displayed at the gala. It had been a lot more trouble than anyone expected, with the jeweler in question swearing up and down that Gordon had promised him $5000 in cash and a Rolex for the necklace. Gordon, of course, had promised him no such thing. After about an hour of negotiation Bruce finally asked the jeweler why they would pay him essentially $15,000 dollars (between the watch and the cash) for a fake rhinestone necklace. The jeweler became flustered, insisting there had been a misunderstanding, and he had confused them with another order. Bruce finally payed $300 and left with the necklace. He still was not sure if the jeweler had just been trying to get extra cash off them, or if he had genuinely confused two orders.

When he had returned to the police station with the necklace, he had been met by an odd sight. A girl with bright pink hair, probably around his own age, was sobbing in an armchair by the reception desk. Everyone seemed to be purposely ignoring her. She had looked up, and Bruce wasn't quite sure what happened next. Her eyes, strikingly blue, were red from crying, but there were no tears on her face. Her expression changed from one of pure grief, to brief recognition, and back to anguish in a fraction of a second.

She stood, wiping away tears that were not on her face, and walked slowly toward Bruce, still sniffling.

"Y-you're Bruce Wayne. Right?" She asked.

Bruce nodded.

"Yeah – I saw you in the papers the other day." She pushed her pink bangs away from her face. "I-I'm Corey. Reed. I don't know if you heard about my boyfriend, Tag Durand - the police are looking into his death right now."

"Yeah, I heard about him," Bruce said, glancing around. There were one or two officers watching this encounter with some interest, but no one seemed to be surprised.

"Yeah – well, they don't get it," Corey said, her eyes moistening once more, although Bruce couldn't help noticing again that no tears spilled out. "It was just an accident. But they're questioning me. _Me._ " She said this as if it were the most ludicrous thing she'd ever heard. "But I loved him. I would never have hurt him."

Bruce didn't quite know what to say. "It's just procedure," he said finally. "They question everyone."

"You don't think I did it, do you?" Corey asked, blue eyes wide and vulnerable.

"Uh, no." Bruce said, wondering why she would ask him that. Did she have any idea he was involved with police work? Because if she didn't, that was a very strange question to be asking.

But Corey's eyes welled once more, and her shoulders started to shake. The next thing Bruce knew, he was holding a sobbing, very loud, Corey in his arms. A couple of the onlooking officers snickered. One rolled her eyes.

Bruce was very confused. He pat Corey on the back, until her sniffling subsided, and she stepped away. "I-it just means so much that someone _believes_ me." She said earnestly. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Listen, I'll give you my number, okay? Maybe we could meet for lunch sometime and I'll tell you my side of the story. Even if _they_ don't believe me." She glared at some of the cops around them, who all quickly turned their heads, pretending they had not been listening in. Corey pulled a scrap of paper from her shirt pocket, and asked Bruce if he had a pen.

"Uh… yeah." Bruce searched his pockets until he pulled out a blue ballpoint.

Corey wasted no time scribbling her name and number on the paper before handing it, along with the pen, back to Bruce.

"Thank you." She said. "It's good to know someone cares. I'll see you around, Bruce." She sniffled once more and turned, pink hair flying over her shoulder as she walked out of the police station.

There was muffled laughter from some of the onlooking officers as Bruce stood there, paper in hand, utterly baffled.

"Bruce!" Gordon's voice rang out as he stepped outside of an interrogation room and headed toward him. Gordon looked from the clearly confused Bruce, to the officers snickering on the side, then to the bench Corey had just been sitting on.

"Did she leave?" Gordon asked, coming to stand beside him.

"Uh, yes. What was her-"

"Her deal?" Gordon peered over Bruce's shoulder, out the door, after Corey. "We just questioned her. Definitely didn't murder Tag. Was out of state for the past few days, arrived back this morning. But a bit manipulative. She insisted they hadn't broken up, until we told her we'd spoken to Tag's sister, and then she changed her story, saying they were on a break, but hadn't actually broken up." Gordon noticed the paper in Bruce's hand. "Did she give you her number?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

"Yes."

Gordon grinned. "I'll help you with that," he said, taking the paper from Bruce's hand and crumpling it up. "Gave her number to about three cops in here," he said. "You don't need to be taking her out to lunch or anything."

"Wasn't planning on it," Bruce said.

He was still slightly confused by the whole situation, even as he parked in the Wayne Manor garage. It seemed clear Corey had just been trying to give Bruce her number, although the fact that she had been so obvious about it made him wonder if that was not actually her intention. He walked in through the front door, and the smell of grilled salmon wafted in from the kitchen. He realized he was starving, and let his feet carry him toward the smell.

"I thought you get home by seven."

It was Selina speaking, not Alfred.

"Lots of work today," he said, pulling out a kitchen chair and collapsing in it. Bruce was not surprised by her unexpected appearance; it was becoming almost normal to find her at Wayne Manor these days.

Alfred pulled out some handsome-looking salmon steaks from the oven, while Selina sat, legs crossed, on the countertop.

"Oh, right, you have that gala thing tomorrow, don't you?" Selina asked, swiping a tomato out of the salad bowl next to her.

Bruce nodded.

"Thought I might show up, check it out," Selina said innocently.

Bruce looked up, eyebrow raised sharply.

"Oh, don't give me that look," Selina said, feigning hurt. "I just want to see Presley's underpants." She seemed to realize Bruce was still not convinced and held her head proudly. "Besides, I've graduated from petty thievery."

"I believe you mean 'reformed', Miss Kyle," Alfred said, handing out filled plates.

Selina grinned. "Yeah, that."

"If you're there for the action, Selina," Bruce said, biting into his salmon. "It'll all be outside. That's where the cops will be arresting everyone."

She gave him a patronizing look, taking the plate of salmon Alfred handed to her. "I'm not there for the action, Bruce. Just thought it would be good to mingle in the Gotham social circles again. That's how things happen. When you meet new people."

"What do you mean by 'things happen'?" Alfred asked.

"Y'know, you meet people, expand your circle of influence. Someone has a job, or an apartment, or is looking for info you might have. That's how the world works. Meet the right people, get ahead in life." She chewed her salmon thoughtfully. "Well, do anything interesting today?" She asked Bruce, changing the subject.

He shrugged. "Sat through a three-hour meeting. Picked up a replica of the necklace. Got the phone number of a girl trying to convince me she hadn't killed her boyfriend."

"Oh?" Selina arched a brow. "How'd it go?" She asked, nonchalant.

Bruce looked up in mock concern, and asked seriously, "Why? Do you want to call her?"

"Ha ha." Selina shifted, stretching her legs out on the countertop. It took a bit of an adjustment for her one leg, which she had to manually move out of its crossed position.

"What about you?" Bruce asked. "What are you doing here?" He frowned. He had a way of asking things like that, which came out sounding bad; but he had no ill intent, was just genuinely curious why she was there at his home. But Selina did not respond angrily.

"I heard Alfred was making his delicious salmon fillet." She helped herself to another mouthful of fish, waving his question away. "But tell us more about the gala. You have a fake necklace on display? I'd be pissed if I found out I was caught stealing a worthless necklace." She shook her head, clearly impressed. "They'll never even make contact with the real thing?" She seemed genuinely sad that their efforts would go to waste.

Bruce shook his head. "Nope. The necklace will be six floors below in the vaults. They won't ever even see it." He grinned. "You don't feel bad for them, do you?"

She shook her head. "Nah. That's just a hard way to go down. Brutal."

They spoke for a bit longer, a little more about the gala (a very formal event), and how Selina's therapy was going (slower than expected, but good), before Selina excused herself and Bruce offered to walk her out.

He opened the door for her, and she exited with a wave.

He felt quite comfortable, maybe even happy. It seemed every time Selina left, they were on better and better terms. For some reason, he remembered the pink-haired girl at the police station, and what a bizarre experience that had been. But that reminded him - there actually was someone he would be very interested in taking out to lunch.

"Selina?" He opened the door, calling after her as she took a step down his front porch.

"Hmmm?" She turned to look back at him.

"Can I take you out? For lunch, maybe?"

She smiled. "When?"

"Uh, well, tomorrow evening's the gala, so we'll probably be too busy in the morning, and then, let's say an extra day just to tie up any loose ends, paperwork, etc. So, that would leave us at… Saturday?"

"A date?" Selina asked.

"A date." Bruce confirmed, a small smile forming at his lips.

"Sure. See you then," Selina seemed surprised, but pleased, all the while trying to play it cool.

Bruce watched her, limping slightly as she walked, until she disappeared outside of the Manor gates. He came back inside, returning to Alfred in the kitchen. He couldn't help the grin on his face.

"You two seem to be getting along marvelously these days," Alfred said, sounding satisfied.

"Yeah… not too bad," he said.

"Even more than you might think," Alfred said, smiling. "I never told her we were having salmon for dinner. I'm quite sure the reason she stopped by was to see you."

"Really?" Bruce couldn't help asking, finishing up some salad left in the bowl.

"Really." Alfred said.

Bruce couldn't quite explain what it was, but he felt something he hadn't felt in months. Maybe years. Then he realized what it was. He felt happy. He hadn't known what he would be doing once his police work was over, but now, he did. He had a date with Selina Kyle. _Though_ , he chided himself, _that didn't really count, at least not in terms of where his life was headed._ _But,_ he couldn't stop the smile on his face, _it definitely felt like it counted._


	14. Chapter 14

**Apologies for the long wait - life got busy, and we had the Jewish High Holidays and Sukkot. I unfortunately only have one chapter for you today, but will continue to post at least weekly.**

 **I hope everything is clear in this chapter. Let me know if anything needs clarification. Would love to hear your thoughts.**

 **angelamorales514: This chapter should explain a little more.**

 **Larry Boodry: Lol, probably not.**

 **AUSTINROX5: Here it is!**

 **Guest: Thank**

 **Guest: Thanks you**

 **Guest: Thank Thank**

 **Guest: Really appreciate it! So glad you noticed! I can't promise an interaction between them in this one, but I had planned for something in a future story perhaps. She's not Catwoman yet, but will be one day, so definitely not 'reformed'.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 14**

It was the morning of the heist. Bruce was at the police station, going over blueprints and tactical strategies with the other officers who would be present at the evening's gala. There was a palpable tension in the room. Caleb Maters paced back and forth, getting angry at anyone who tried to interrupt him. Miles Conway was walking around with his head stuck in a sting-op strategy manual, muttering to himself. Gordon, who was busy going over the details of the heist with everyone individually, looked up just in time to see Miles so intent on his manual that he walked into an adjacent desk. Gordon caught Bruce's eye and winked.

Bruce, too, was filled with nervous anticipation, though he could not tell how much had to do with the heist and how much with securing a date with Selina Kyle. He occasionally caught himself drifting off to their conversation the previous evening and forced himself to focus. The fake necklace had been delivered to the museum and was already on display in its case. Many of the officers had brought tuxedos to work, expecting to change right before they left for the museum. Bruce himself was looking over Derek Runyen's photos, trying to imagine the bald man with a hairpiece and tuxedo.

"Bruce."

He looked up. Gordon had just finished with another officer and was walking over. He tilted his head to a quieter corner of the station. "Can I catch you a second?"

"Sure." Bruce followed Gordon, maneuvering past busy officers and catching a glare from the pacing Maters.

"You too, Caleb," Gordon said. Eyes shifting suspiciously, Maters followed them, coming to a stop next to Gordon in the corner.

"I'm not going to go over everything with you," Gordon said to Bruce. 'You were with us, you know the layout of the museum. But," Gordon glanced over Bruce's shoulder to make sure no one was within hearing distance and dropped his voice. "I wanted to let you know that Caleb and I have been speaking, and we both think it will be a good idea to have an actual cop on guard watching the real necklace. Something still doesn't sit right with me about this whole thing, so we thought it would be a good precaution to make sure the necklace is secure. No one else knows about this, just the three of us." Gordon indicated himself, Bruce, and Maters, who grunted. "If Sionis does have some inside contact, they won't know that we're one step ahead of them."

Bruce nodded stolidly, wondering why Gordon was telling him this if they wanted to keep it on the down-low, but Gordon went on, "Caleb will be on patrol in the vault room. But I'm giving you this," he pulled a key from his pocket. "A clearance key to the vault room. If we do have any action down there, Caleb will give you a ring with this buzzer," he handed one to Bruce. "Keep it on your person. If it rings, get down there immediately. Take the stairs, it'll be faster than waiting for an elevator to come. I'll be outside, so I won't be able to get there right away, but we'll shift things around to give you backup if you need."

Bruce nodded. "Got it. Follow Derek Runyen. If the buzzer rings, take the stairs, and help Detective Maters."

"I wouldn't need his help in a thousand years," Maters growled.

Bruce frowned.

A flash of irritation passed over Gordon's face, but when he spoke, his voice was calm. "Caleb, I've told you before. If you can't be professional, I'll get someone else to do the job with Bruce."

Maters made a noise deep at the back of his throat but said nothing.

Gordon drew in a deep breath. "Alright. That's it, then. We're all clear?"

Bruce and Maters both nodded.

"Okay. Well, I have others to brief. Let me know if anything comes up." Gordon looked from Maters to Bruce and then headed off to the side. Maters refused to look at Bruce, instead checking his watch, and moved away as well.

Bruce stood for a moment, uneasy. Something in the conversation with Maters had triggered something in him. He wasn't sure what it was exactly, but whatever that something was, he now had a vague distrust for the gruff detective. _Well, that's normal, obviously_ , Bruce told himself. _He doesn't like you_. But he couldn't help feeling that there was more to it than that. It wasn't a dislike for Maters (though he freely admitted there were no positive feelings), it was distrust – distinctly different from a petty dislike. He tried to recall what Maters said that had made him feel this way but couldn't pinpoint what it might be. Maters hadn't said much, just made a comment about not needing Bruce's help, so why would that leave Bruce with a feeing of suspicion for the older detective?

He glanced up at Maters, who was now standing (nervously?) by his desk, squinting around at everyone, hand in his pocket.

Bruce wondered if he should say something to Gordon, but he couldn't bring himself to. What would he say? _Detective Maters said something mean, and now I'm sure he's up to no good_? No, Bruce resolved. He would not say anything. But he decided to keep an extra eye on Maters.

For two hours, that didn't mean much. The detective went back to pacing, yelled at an intern for knocking into him, and spent a lot of his time looking through papers and glancing at his watch.

Bruce wanted to think that was suspicious behavior, but there were plenty other officers checking their watches too, waiting for the day to go by and the gala to begin.

But, at almost noon, Bruce's waiting finally paid off.

After another glimpse at his watch, Maters stood, gave an unremarkable stretch, and, lips pursed, glanced around the room.

Bruce looked away. When he looked back up, Maters was walking nonchalantly toward the door. He paused along the way, stopped to speak briefly with an officer and headed out the door.

Bruce's eyes darted around the room, at all the officers deeply entrenched in their preparations. He made a decision. Swiftly and inconspicuously, he followed Maters out the door, making sure to stand well enough away that the detective would not see him.

Maters headed toward the police parking lot and pulled a set of car keys from his pocket, whistling. He seemed much happier now than he had been in the station.

Bruce thought quickly. He would need a car to follow Maters, but his own would be too noticeable - not to mention a dead give-away. A plan formed in his mind, and he raced toward the street, away from the police parking lot, hoping this would work. A shiny silver car zoomed by. He waited, looking in the distance, and glanced back at Maters, who was currently unlocking his car (His personal car, Bruce noted, not a police vehicle). He looked back down the road. An unremarkable gray car was approaching. Perfect. Bruce waved the car down as it got nearer.

The driver slowed as he got closer to Bruce. He was a young man in his early twenties. He peered out of his car window suspiciously, and his eyes widened in recognition.

"Hey," Bruce said with a wave. "I know this is a bit of short notice, but I need a car. I'll buy yours. Now. For $10,000." He was already pulling a checkbook from his pocket.

The man appeared confused. 'You're Bruce Wayne." He said, apparently in shock.

Bruce nodded, glancing at Maters, who was getting in his car. He needed a vehicle _now_. "That's right. Your car is probably worth $1500 second hand. You can buy a new car for the ten thousand I'll give you."

The man frowned. "Uh…"

"Will you accept my offer?" Bruce asked.

"Uh… I-I can clean it first." The man offered, glancing around at the mess in his car.

"Don't worry about it. I need it now," Bruce said. "Will you take the money in exchange for it?"

"Uh… yeah. Yeah. Okay," the man started getting out of his car, pulling out his stuff as Bruce wrote out a check for $15,000 to cash. The man rubbed his hands together nervously, apparently beginning to doubt the transaction.

"Look, this is a personal check. You can cash it now. There's an ATM right around the corner over there." He pointed. "If there are any problems, and there won't be, call me," he scribbled his number on the back of the check.

Maters was pulling out of the parking lot.

"What's your name?" Bruce asked, handing over the check.

"Uh, George Wells."

Bruce flashed a smile and held out his hand. They shook. "Thank you, George." Bruce slipped into the driver's seat and closed the door. The key was still in the ignition. He shifted into drive and pulled off after Maters.

* * *

When Maters stopped at a fast-food restaurant, Bruce cursed himself. What had he just done? He'd bought a man's car off the street so he could watch a detective eat lunch.

He parked across the road, a little out of the way, feeling he couldn't abandon his pursuit just yet after all he had invested in it, quite literally. He decided to follow Maters once he was finished eating, just to finish the job properly.

He lay back against the headrest, hand still on the steering wheel, and looked around. The inside of the car was in pretty bad condition. Garbage was littered all over the floor and seats, and there was an unpleasant musky odor inside. A keychain hung from the rearview mirror, swinging gently.

He sighed, barely able to believe what he had just done. _Alfred would be very happy about this_ , he thought sarcastically. Maters ordered a burger and ate it in his car.

The key chain swaying on the mirror came to a slow stop. There was an inscription on it. A quote, Bruce realized. It read, _The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. -Lao Tzu_

Bruce sat up straight, staring at the quote. That was it! That was what Maters had said that had left him feeling uneasy. Something about not needing his help in a _**thousand years**_. And that was important – he knew it was – it had something to do with Tag – something Tag had told him. He read the quote again. _The journey of a_ _ **thousand miles**_ _begins with one step._

Then the pieces fell into place. He sat in shock, wondering how he had forgotten that bit of information. Well, he had been sick with fever when Tag called, he reminded himself. But he now understood why he had been so suspicious of Maters.

Bruce tried to rework everything in his mind. Tag had told him in their last and final conversation that there had been extra complications in disabling the alarms, and that he, Tag, had figured out how to solve it – something about sending a signal to trick the electronic perimeter – but then, Tag had said, "Y'know, I think I'm the only person in a **_thousand-mile_** radius that knows how to work these." But what did that have to do with Maters?

Well, it wasn't incriminating, but Maters had been the one (and this all made so much sense now) that had told them he had spoken with an informant, and that Sionis had found a replacement for Tag a mere day after his death. But if Tag was right (and Bruce suspected he was), a replacement would not have been that easy to find. He couldn't imagine the crew had any details on how Tag planned to bypass the alarms. It was all very technical stuff. If they didn't have that information, it would have been very unlikely that they had managed to find someone with equal skill to replace Tag. Maters was lying!

Maters had come in at the eleventh hour, right as they were about to cancel the gala, with this information. Mater's word alone - about this 'replacement' and his testimony of Sionis's plans to go ahead with the heist - was the only evidence that Sionis did not know the police were on to them. If Maters was lying, (and Bruce was willing to bet another fifteen grand that he was), then in all probability Sionis had known quite well that Tag was in an alliance with the police, and Maters had just covered up for a murder. If Maters was working with Sionis, then that would also explain how they found out Tag was working with the cops.

Anger welled up inside him, but Bruce forced himself to think rationally. Yes, it made a lot of sense. But there were still some pieces missing. Parts he wasn't sure about. Like, why would Maters betray them? What was in it for him? And what did he gain by killing Tag? Bruce considered calling Gordon to tell him of his suspicions.

Just then, Maters' car roared to life. Bruce looked up, alert, and quietly pulled out of his parking space, tailing carefully after the detective. It wasn't five minutes before Bruce realized exactly where they were going. They were heading toward the museum. He trailed Maters' car, thinking. His suspicions were not quite strong enough yet to be damning. He just needed a little more evidence.

Bruce pulled into a parking space about ten cars away from Maters and watched as the uniformed man got out of his car, looked around, his hand once more in his right pocket. Bruce noticed a slight bulge in the side of the officer's pant leg and wondered what he might be hiding. He waited until Maters had entered the museum before getting out himself. He walked slowly toward the glass doors, watching from outside.

The detective stopped at the front desk and spoke briefly to the receptionist, pointing to the police badge on his chest. He pulled from his left pocket a key identical to the one Bruce had been given by Gordon. It was the security clearance key. The lady nodded and directed him toward the elevator.

Bruce watched as Maters headed over and pressed the 'down' button on the panel. Bruce had been here before. There were only two places 'down' would take you. The parking lot. Or the vaults.

Maters shifted as the elevator came down. The doors opened. He stepped in. The doors closed.

Bruce considered his best course of action. He walked inside. The receptionist looked up.

"We close at 2PM today, sir. There's an event this evening and everyone has to be cleared out by then."

Bruce checked his watch. It was 1:05 PM. He headed toward the receptionist's desk.

"I'll be back down before 2."

The woman shifted uncertainly.

Bruce smiled brightly at her. "I promise." She seemed to warm up a little.

A sign behind her listed the museum hours and fees. $20 for a day pass, $200 for an annual pass, and $300 for a family annual package.

"Uh, my boss said not let anyone in after 1 o'clock. Because the museum is an hour-long tour and it will take a while to-"

"Tell you what," Bruce said, placing a $20 dollar bill on the desk for a day's museum pass. "I'll be down here before 2 o'clock or you can call the cops on me." He winked good-naturedly.

She blushed, taking his $20 bill and handing him a day pass. "Alright, sir, but not a minute late or my boss'll be real mad." She didn't seem upset.

Bruce thanked her and headed to the elevator. He realized it would look suspicious if he pressed the 'down' button and instead opted for the stairs, recalling that they also went to the vaults below. He took the steps three by three, wondering when and how he would tell Gordon about this. He jogged down one, then two flights of stairs, and had to use his clearance key to get into the third stairwell.

He made his way down. At last, on the bottom most level, he realized there was a small window on the door to the vault room. It was dark in the stairwell and no light was coming in through the window. He pressed his face up against the pane of glass, trying to see what was going on inside.

"I told you you were being followed," A slick voice growled behind him.

Bruce whirled around.

Maters and another man, tall and thin - though in the darkness he couldn't make out his face properly - were standing right behind him.

A vague thought flashed through Bruce's mind that the second man was probably Roman Sionis, before he felt a sharp pain in the side of his head, and everything went black.


	15. Chapter 15

**Sorry for the long wait! In my eagerness to get this up, I will not be responding to all the wonderful people who reviewed, but a big thank you to everyone who did!**

 **This is my longest chapter yet, hope that makes up (in part) for the many many weeks I've kept you waiting. More to come sooner than this one did.**

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CHAPTER 15

Bruce felt a throbbing pain in his head. Angry voices whispered nearby, and a flood of memories came rushing back. He lay still, taking stock of the situation. He was face-down on the floor, cheek pressed against cool cement. His hands were uncomfortably positioned behind his back with his wrists locked together in what was probably a pair of handcuffs. He didn't dare open his eyes. Though they were speaking in whispers, he could clearly make out voices talking close by, probably less than five feet away.

He lay quietly, listening.

"How was I supposed to know that the necklace would be delayed?" Mater's voice whispered furiously.

"It's not a matter of you knowing, it's a matter of making sure I get it. So, we will stay here until I do." Though the second voice, who Bruce assumed belonged to Ronan Sionis, was angry as well, there was a detached coolness about it that made it perfectly clear who held the power in this conversation.

"I'm telling you," Maters growled, "If James Gordon doesn't hear from me, or the Wayne kid, he'll know something's up."

"So call him," Sionis said dismissively. "Tell him the museum security requested an extra armed guard given the 'heightened security threat'. And as for the Wayne boy, no one will notice he's missing until right before the gala, and we'll be long gone by then."

"Why would I willingly place myself at the scene of crime earlier than I need to be?" Maters sputtered indignantly. "It'll be highly suspicious if they realize I was here when the necklace gets stolen."

"Do you not remember the plan, dimwit?" Sionis sneered derisively. "You're going to be here when the necklace is stolen anyway. And don't worry. We'll knock you out properly so you have a convincing alibi when your friends find you."

"You said you were just going to tie me up!" Maters said angrily.

"I'm happy to make it a lot more realistic," Sionis said coldly. "If you don't play by the rules. My rules."

Bruce couldn't see their faces, but he understood the implicit threat in Sionis's words. They were further confirmed by a pregnant pause from Maters, who realized he was being threatened but didn't know what to do about it.

Finally, Maters said resentfully, "How do I know you'll get me my share of the profits? How do I know you won't just walk away with the necklace and never see me again?"

"How do I know this is not just another elaborate set-up by the police to put me behind bars?" Sionis countered. "I don't, but I trust you. Criminal enterprise requires a little bit of trust."

Bruce wasn't sure if Maters had caught the crooked logic. It seemed clear to Bruce that Maters didn't have the daring to double-cross Sionis, while Sionis seemed perfectly content to stab even his friends in the back.

Whether Maters understood the false equivalency or not, he seemed to appreciate that his way forward was on Sionis's good side.

"So, you want me to call James Gordon?" He asked irritably.

"Probably a good idea," Sionis advised.

There was some shuffling, then Maters said, "There's no reception in these vaults."

"Go outside, make your call," Sionis said mildly. "We have plenty of time."

Bruce listened as Maters stepped out. His mind raced. He didn't have a plan, but it would be much easier to take on one person at a time. He didn't know if Sionis had any weapons (though Maters certainly had a gun), and his hands were still cuffed behind his back, but he did have the element of surprise because Sionis thought he was unconscious.

He was just calculating the best way to get to his feet without the use of his hands when Sionis spoke.

"You don't need to pretend to be unconscious, Bruce."

Bruce stiffened.

Sionis chuckled. "Unconscious bodies don't strain their ears so much."

Realizing that his window of opportunity had passed, Bruce opened his eyes, squinting against the brightly lit vault. He rolled over onto his back, groaning, and pulled himself into a sitting position. A sharp pain pierced his throbbing head as he sat. He rested against the wall behind him, flexing his sore shoulders, arms still cuffed behind his back.

For some reason, he did not feel scared. He took in his surroundings, but there wasn't much to take in. They were in an empty vault room. Sionis stood between him and the door, which was slightly ajar, watching him with interest.

It was this look - the slight curiosity in Sionis's eyes - and the fact that he was still alive, that made Bruce feel wholly unconcerned. If Sionis wanted him dead, he would be dead. But he wasn't. Which meant Sionis probably wanted something from him. If he could procrastinate long enough, then he might indeed be able to find his way out.

They sat in silence. Sionis stared intently at him. Bruce surveyed the room once more, eyes coming to rest on Sionis's hand, tucked neatly into the pocket of his black trench coat – an odd choice for the summer months.

Maters' voice sounded from outside the vault, though Bruce could not make out what he was saying. He turned his eyes back to Sionis's wrist.

"Nice watch," Bruce said affably.

Sionis's lip twitched. He drew his hand from his pocket, further revealing Bruce's handsome brown leather watch with the rose gold clock.

More silence followed. Finally, Sionis said, "Patek Phillippe. Not the sort of thing you usually find lying around. What's it worth? $50,000?"

"New, they're worth $80,000," Bruce said. "But this one's seven years old. You could probably get sixty for it if you push." His Uncle Henry had sent it for his birthday the year after his parents were murdered.

Sionis laughed. "No. Something like this you don't sell. You wear. It's quite the status symbol." He smiled, shaking his head. He seemed to be calculating something in his mind, then went on in an almost instructive tone. "No… Anything less than thirty grand you sell. More than that, you wear. You set the tone when you wear money." He tilted his head, considering. "But more than $250,000 you sell. The benefit is two-fold. You have big profit gains and, you don't look like an asshole." He spoke as if he had just given Bruce a valuable life lesson.

"Thanks," Bruce said. "I'll keep that in mind."

A muscle twitched in Sionis's eye as he gave Bruce an appraising look, not quite sure whether to sneer or laugh.

"Spoke to Gordon – told him I'm here to make sure the necklace arrives safely…" Maters frowned as he stepped into the room, seeing Bruce awake. He glanced suspiciously from Bruce to Sionis, and back to Bruce, as if the two had been conspiring against him in his absence.

Sionis leaned against the wall comfortably as silence fell over the room.

Maters shuffled nervously and turned to Sionis, clenching his jaw. "What-" he cleared his throat. "What are we going to do with him? He knows. We can't let him go."

Bruce looked up with interest, also curious.

"We'll have to kill him." Sionis said matter-of-factly.

Maters nodded slowly, gaze fixed straight ahead. He was calculating the options, realizing there really was no other way to get out of this. He looked uncomfortable. "Er… when? Shouldn't we do it sooner rather than later? The necklace will be arriving soon, we don't need him messing anything up."

Sionis laughed. "He won't. And we can't kill him now. We don't have supplies to deal with cleaning up a dead body. If they find him here, you'll be their number one suspect. Gordon knows you're here now."

Maters face tightened. "Yeah. Right."

Silence fell over the room once more. Maters paced restlessly and kept checking his watch. Sionis sat on the floor, stretching out his legs. He seemed to be in no rush.

Bruce watched Maters pacing.

Maters glared at him. "What are you looking at?"

"Why?" Bruce asked sincerely.

Maters paused in place, face red. "Why what?" He barked.

"Why betray Gordon? Why betray the police force?"

"Shut up, kid."

Sionis arched a brow. Maters resumed his pacing, every now and then throwing a glance at Bruce in the corner. He stopped suddenly, turning to face Bruce, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

"You want to know why, kid? I'll tell you why. I've been in this business 37 years. Thirty-seven long years. And you know what? When I started out, I was just like Gordon. I believed in something. I believed in the law. I thought that if I could help enforce it, the world would be a better place." He shook his head slowly. "Thirty-seven years is a long time. Long enough to see the world for the way it really is. Crime keeps growing. You'll never have a police force big enough to stop it. That's just the way it is. And I've seen that more than ever the past two years. Gotham's been a living hell." He paused to draw in a breath. "And you might think it's getting better. But it's not. Just give one more bozo the opportunity to blow up our new bridge and we'll have the same thing again. Maybe worse. We can never fix it. It's like trying to do all the laundry. Know what happens the next day? It's dirty again. It will never get clean and stay clean. It's made to get messed up again. It's built into the system. And it's not worth it."

"So you'll sell yourself out?" Bruce asked. "For that?"

Maters actually laughed, shook his head, and put his hands up defensively. "Is it so wrong to want a nice retirement? I'm out at the end of this year. I thought I'd leave my job feeling accomplished, feeling like I did something with my life. But I haven't. So the least I can do is get something from my work." He smirked. "Yes, I'll enjoy living out my retirement in Hawaii, with enough money to do whatever I want. At least the latter half of my life will be lived out properly." He noticed the disgusted look on Bruce's face and said with irritation, "What does the Queen care? She has enough money. It won't hurt her to lose a necklace!"

"Someone died because of you," Bruce said in a low voice.

"That was not my fault!" Maters sputtered, pointing at Sionis, who was watching the conversation with interest. "I didn't tell him to do that. Don't know why he did!"

Sionis stood up slowly, expression cold. "I do not like people that are not loyal. I do not like people that betray me. I will not stand for people who will stab me in the back. Montague got what was coming to him."

Maters did not appear to notice that Sionis was looking dangerously at him. "Yeah, well, I had to cover that one up for you big time, didn't I? Pretend you were looking for a new guy to disable the alarms. If it weren't for me, we wouldn't be here."

Sionis glared at him. "You're right. If it weren't for you, we wouldn't be here." He gave Maters a pointed look. Maters stopped talking. Sionis began pacing slowly, arms clasped behind his back. He looked at Bruce as he walked, addressing him. "You know, Bruce, some of us are not as simple-minded as your friend here. Some of us," he emphasized the words, "see the world the way it really is. We don't care about retirement, or Hawaii, or purpose. We see that there is only power, and we take it." He paused intentionally.

Bruce noticed that Sionis was talking again in an instructional tone to him, and once again got the feeling that Sionis wanted something more from him.

"You see Bruce," Sionis continued, "I would kill a man for killing my brother. And a cop would kill me to stop me from doing that. I would take an expensive watch that the owner would not miss, but a cop would take some poor fellow's drugs – drugs that he'd paid for – because cops wrote the rules that way. And only one them will end up in jail. Only one of them will be punished for the same action. The one that must live by the laws of the other. But we're not different, criminals and cops. We do the same things. We just live by different rules. Mine are rules of integrity – of honor, of loyalty. Theirs are laws they've made up so they can be in control. Do you think a man deserves to be in jail for driving over the speed limit when he's hurt no one? Of course not. No cop does either. But it's their matrix where they create the rules and laws, so they can have the power – so they can run the world on their terms." He smiled cruelly. "But I don't play by their rules. I choose to live outside of their matrix. So, by definition, I have the power."

"I'm sorry that's the only way you can feel powerful," Bruce said stoically.

Ronan Sionis chuckled. "There are many ways to have power, Bruce. Cops will do as they please in the name of law and order. The smart dominate over the stupid in society. And the rich oppress the working class and treat everyone like garbage. But you…" He gazed at Bruce as if trying to comprehend an unsolvable mystery. "You are rich. You are not stupid. You have power. And yet you abide by the rules of law enforcement, and even treat them with respect." He looked at Bruce curiously, as if he had asked a question.

"Yeah, I do." Bruce said. "Because I believe in a world where people don't have to fear for their lives. The law may not always play out everything to perfection, it may not give everyone what they deserve. But it allows people to live sane lives without having to worry that their parents will be murdered as they walk home from a movie theater. Without having to worry that they will be killed because a man named Ronan Sionis thinks they look ugly." He glared up at Sionis. "You might think you live by rules of integrity, but you also made those rules up. In fact, you're worse than cops. At least they made laws to benefit everyone. To give everyone a chance at life and freedom. But your rules are only there to serve you. They don't help anyone else."

A muscle in Sionis's face twitched. "Cops don't live by their own rules. Do you know how many times I have seen a cop pocket the money he just retrieved from a thief? How many cops use the law to serve themselves? To oppress others?"

"How did you kill Tag?" Bruce asked quietly.

Sionis sneered. "Montague? Very easily. We made a hairline incision in his front tire. Deep enough that it would definitely blow, but not too deep that he would notice until it was too late. Shredded tires are common in motorcycle accidents. We thought no one would be the wiser and we were right." He smiled.

Bruce felt anger boiling up inside him. He wasn't having any success getting the cuffs off behind his back and his wrists were already chafed from trying. There was another method, a more painful one...

A low buzz sounded. Maters stiffened, listening. Then his eyes widened. "They're in the elevator. They're coming down now with the necklace." He glanced fearfully at Bruce. "Sh-should we knock him out again or something?"

Sionis rolled his eyes and held out an outstretched arm to Maters. "Give me your gun."

"What? Y-you can't kill him now," Maters said. "You just said that. They'll know."

"I'm not going to," Sionis replied, annoyed. His voice dropped dangerously. "Now give me your gun."

Maters handed it reluctantly to Sionis, who hit the switch on the wall, turning the light in the vault off. He closed the vault door just enough that someone from outside couldn't see in, but kept a wide enough sliver open to allow the light from the corridor to shine in.

"Now," Sionis lifted the gun, speaking to Bruce, but pointed it at Maters' head. "If you make a sound, or any movement, I'll kill him."

In the dim light, Maters looked furious.

Sionis gave a cool smile.

A moment later, they heard the sound of elevator doors opening and voices of multiple people talking (four or five? Bruce couldn't quite tell) as they entered the corridor.

Bruce felt his jaw tighten and locked eyes with Sionis. He knew Sionis would not hesitate to shoot Maters, even if it meant alerting everyone there to his presence. And it bothered him to no end that Sionis knew Bruce would not take that chance. He was stuck.

He would have taken the risk of trying to attack had the room been sufficiently dark, but the light from the hallway lit the room enough that everything inside was visible. And he wasn't going to continue working on the cuffs right now in front of Sionis if it meant jeopardizing Maters' life.

They heard footsteps pass their vault.

"Let's see… vault fourty-two," one of the men said.

"Just put it in and shut it," another man with a deeper voice spoke. "It should lock automatically."

Maters glanced at Bruce, fear in his eyes. He was sweating.

They heard something being moved – it sounded quite heavy - and then the groan of the thick vault door swinging shut. A sharp click resounded through the room as the door closed.

"That's it?" They heard.

"That's it."

"We just leave it? No one's supposed to be watching it? That thing's worth millions of dollars."

Bruce could almost hear one of the men shrug. "The police are on it. They'll have a cop here soon."

"If you're sure."

"Those were my orders."

The sound of footsteps came closer as the men passed by and Bruce was tempted to yell out. Sionis seemed to guess what he was thinking and caught Bruce's eye, giving his head the slightest shake.

They heard a buzz and the sound of doors opening, then the shuffle of footsteps. The doors closed and the elevator whirred as it ascended.

Everyone stayed still until they could no longer hear the elevator.

Sionis finally lowered the gun.

"I did not appreciate that," Maters growled.

"Well, it worked, didn't it?" Sionis said.

"I don't care if it worked. Knocking him out would have achieved the same result."

"Not quite the same result." Sionis said pointedly, as if the subject was of no importance. "Now, I believe you have the key?"

"What?" Sputtered Maters angrily. "What? No. I'm not done talking with you about- Yes. Yes, I have the key." His tone changed significantly as Sionis examined the Glock with a meaningful look.

"Well," Sionis said, without looking up. "Go get it then."

Maters shot a resentful look at Sionis before grudgingly stepping out of the vault.

There was a moment of quiet as his footsteps faded down the hall.

"You're going to kill him, aren't you?" Bruce asked quietly.

Sionis looked up from the gun, eyebrow raised. "Don't miss much, do you." It was a statement, not a question.

Bruce shrugged. They heard a vault door opening. "And me?" He asked.

"I haven't decided yet. That one is a pain. The world would be better rid of him. But you… I don't have a reason to kill you… yet."

"I'll tell Gordon you stole the necklace," Bruce said, buying time as he dislocated his thumb trying to slip the handcuffs off his wrist. He was careful not to flinch. "That might be a reason to kill me."

"James Gordon already knows I'm after it. I hardly think that will make a difference in targeting me, though it may expedite the process."

"Where are the rest of your cronies?" Bruce asked, just managing to force the handcuff off his right hand.

Sionis laughed, amused. "They still think we're stealing the necklace at 8 o'clock tonight. I have no reason to tell them otherwise. It will keep the cops busy while I get away."

"Unless I tell them first." Bruce rubbed his aching hand.

They heard an echoed grunt; it sounded like Maters was trying to open something.

Sionis leered. "You'll be locked in this vault with a dead man. I think it will be a while before they find you. Maybe a few days. These vaults are soundproof when closed."

"Good plan." Bruce said. "Just one problem."

"Oh, what's that?" Sionis asked.

"Taking the Queen's necklace won't make you any less of a cheap, slimy, unprincipled douchebag." Bruce barely flinched as he popped his thumb back into place.

A muscle twitched in Sionis's face. "You know what, I think I will kill you."

"Got it!" Came Maters' shout. They heard his footsteps, approaching.

"I still think I'll kill him first," Sionis said, loading a round into the gun. "Just so you can watch." He smiled.

Bruce smiled pleasantly back.

Sionis turned to face the door, gun raised.

Bruce took his chance. He leapt to his feet, slamming Sionis against the wall, grasping the loose handcuff with his free hand so the chain was pressed against Sionis's neck. He had pinned Sionis's gun arm against the wall with his elbow.

Sionis looked surprised but recovered quickly. He attempted to knee Bruce sharply in the stomach, but Bruce was one step ahead. Sidestepping the kick, he rammed Sionis's wrist with his elbow. The gun dropped. Bruce moved, striking Sionis's throat with his forearm with every step. Sionis fell back, sliding along the wall, eyes wide and mouth open. Bruce struck a final blow and Sionis'e eyes rolled into his head.

Bruce turned around. Maters was standing, mouth agape, just outside the vault door. Their eyes locked for a moment. Simultaneously, their gazes flicked toward the gun, lying ownerless, on the floor between them. Maters dived for it. Bruce ran, tackling him to the ground. Maters scrambled desperately, hand searching for the gun. His fingers closed around the handle. Bruce's hand found the barrel and he twisted it sharply, pointing it at an adjacent wall, trying to rip it from Mater's grasp. The gun jerked violently beneath his fingers as it went off with a bang. It ricocheted off the walls, the sound deafening in the small space of the vault.

Bruce rolled, heaving Maters on top of him to protect himself from the rogue bullet. Maters tried to shelter his head beneath his arms. The vault suddenly grew quiet. Both Bruce and Maters looked up to see what had stopped the bullet but there was no sign of it.

Maters' gaze returned to Bruce, now pinned beneath him. He leered. Maters pressed one meaty hand against Bruce's face, and shifted, reaching for the abandoned gun.

Bruce took the chance, slamming the heel of his left palm into Mater's stomach, who folded on top of him. He caught Mater's weight, rolling him off to the side and tried to stand, but was held back by something anchoring his left arm. He looked down. Maters was holding onto the loose end of his handcuffs.

Maters yanked, and Bruce stumbled forward. Maters took the opportunity to dive for the gun. Bruce slid, kicking his foot sharply at the pistol. It went flying across the floor, out the door of the vault. Maters scrambled to his feet, making a dash for the door.

Bruce leapt two long strides, lunging at Maters. He grabbed a fistful of Maters' shirt from the back and pulled, driving his forearm against the side of Maters' neck. Maters staggered from the blow and turned, hands up, defensive. It was time to finish this. Bruce feigned high and as Maters' hands went up to block the blow, he drove both fists with the weight of his whole body into Maters' chest.

Bruce watched, at first relieved, as Maters careened backwards, and then with horror as his body hit the vault door.

Time seemed to pass in slow-motion as he watched the thick metal door swing shut. It closed with a resounding _click_ , sealing in its frame. Bruce froze, dumbstruck. They were locked in.


	16. Chapter 16

**Next chapter up! Let me know what you think!**

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CHAPTER 16

Bruce paced the vault, mind racing, trying to pull himself together. He didn't doubt that someone would find him. There was a suspicious gun lying outside the vault door, and he gave it twelve hours, max, before he was found. What did concern him was that he might not be found in time to let Gordon know what was going on. When did the gala start? He didn't even know what time it was. Which reminded him that Sionis had taken his watch.

Stepping gingerly around Maters' crumpled form, he approached Sionis, slumped in the corner, and unstrapped the rose gold watch from his wrist. It was already 5:45. The gala started in less than two hours. Something caught his eyes and he looked down, noticing a small puddle of blood pooling around Sionis's leg. He frowned, crouching to inspect closer. A small, dark hole sat cleanly on Sionis's calf. He briefly recalled the ricocheting bullet.

Bruce sighed. Great. Another thing to deal with. He set to work, using his undershirt as a makeshift bandage. The bullet appeared to still be lodged in Sionis's leg; it hadn't shot through cleanly. He tied the strip of cloth tightly over the wound and looked around for something he could use to prop up Sionis's leg. It would be better if it was elevated. But there was nothing. Just him, and the two unconscious bodies. Ah.

Bruce crossed the room toward Maters and pulled off a set of keys from the unconscious detective's belt. He unlocked the handcuffs from his left wrist and placed them, instead, on Maters. The detective groaned. Bruce paused, waiting for him to settle, then, he heaved Maters' large body across the room beside Sionis and lifted the wounded leg onto Maters' back. Yes, that would be sufficient elevation.

Bruce rubbed his hands, stepping back to admire his work. There was not much else to do here. They were all stuck until someone found them. Sionis would likely not lose too much blood and as long as they didn't wake up and kill each other, no one's life was in immediate danger.

Bruce frowned, concentrating hard. He walked toward the vault door and inspected it. There was no way to open it from the inside.

Maters had a phone, but he had said there was very little reception inside the vaults and Bruce suspected that with the 10-inch steel door closed there would be none at all. Still, it was worth the effort, and Bruce slipped the cell from Maters' pocket. He flipped it open. Sure enough, none of the signal bars were lit. He tried to call Gordon anyway. ' _No signal'_ flashed across the screen.

Bruce lowered himself against a wall, beaten. He supposed it wasn't the end of the world. He had Maters and Ronan Sionis neutralized in here, and the cops were set to continue with their plan, as were the rest of Sionis' crew.

Now that he had a moment to relax, Bruce realized his head was throbbing. He put his hand up to the side of his head and realized there was quite a large lump on his temple. That was probably where they had hit him to knock him out.

He watched the minute hand on his clock tick slowly by. 6:00 PM. 6:17. 6:32. The gala would start in an hour.

A short while later, Maters stirred. Bruce felt little pity as he stood, walked over, and rammed his hand into the side of Maters' neck. Maters' eyes rolled back into his head. Bruce returned to his spot near the door, his head still aching.

He preferred not to have anyone conscious at the moment; it just complicated things. He glanced at his watch again. It was already past 7:00. He imagined the less respected and less wealthy (but still rich, by any standard) members of the Gotham community were already queuing up outside the museum. The affluent were always early. The ultra-affluent were always late. He wondered where Alfred was, if the butler was wondering where his charge had gotten to.

A resounding _click_ sounded throughout the vault room. Bruce stood instantly. That was the door! Someone had just unlocked the door. He watched as it slowly opened.

A voice called in, "This is the police! We are armed. Do not move!"

It was Gordon. A wave of relief swooped through Bruce's chest. The door opened all the way and Gordon, along with four other officers behind him, including Miles Conway, were pointing their guns inside.

Bruce watched James Gordon's expression change as he took in the scene of the vault, the unconscious forms of Maters and Sionis. His eyes rested on Bruce, and he lowered his gun. The other cops did the same.

"Bruce?" Gordon asked, brows furrowed together in confusion. "Is that… Ronan Sionis?"

Bruce nodded wearily, as one of the officers stepped aside, presumably to call an ambulance.

"I'm going to need you to fill us in," Gordon said, eyes glancing toward Maters on the floor.

Bruce spoke quickly, explaining how he had followed Maters to the museum on a hunch, and been knocked out by the two of them. He went on, filling in with as much detail as he could, about how Maters had been helping Sionis steal the necklace, how Tag had been killed, and how he had managed to knock both Maters and Sionis out, how Sionis had gotten a bullet wound in his calf, and how he, Bruce, had wound up locked in the vault. He finished, explaining that Sionis had told none of his crew of his plans, and they would all be arriving, as planned (minus Tag of course), to make the attempted heist.

Gordon was shaking his head with disbelief. "He's been with us over 30 years, Caleb has." He shook his head once more, then turned to the officers beside him, issuing orders. "Alright, let's get them out of here," he said nodding at Maters and Sionis. "They'll both likely need to be treated before we can transfer them. After that, everyone upstairs. Big change of plans. I don't want anyone to get out of the building. I want everyone situated next to their guy. You'll all get a buzzer. When everyone's in position, I'll page. Grab your guy, knock him out, arrest him. Do you what you have to do. The gala starts in ten minutes, and Sionis' men will be arriving over the next forty-five minutes. I want everything to be smooth, no one needs to get hurt."

The elevator _dinged_ , and four paramedics came in, carrying stretchers. Two of the cops helped the paramedics lift and restrain both Maters and Sionis onto their respective stretchers.

Gordon stepped over to Bruce. "Bruce, do you want to head to the hospital? Looks like you've got a nasty bump on the side of your head."

Bruce gave a cracked grin. "Are you kidding, Detective Gordon? I've been waiting hours for this."

Gordon smiled, patting him on the back.

Bruce suddenly remembered something. "Detective, do you know where the Queen's necklace is? Maters had it last."

Gordon nodded. "It was on the floor when we came in. It's back in the vault now. Actually, there are two necklaces in there. I was hoping you could help explain that."

Bruce's brows drew together in a frown. "What do you mean?"

"We went to return the necklace to its vault, and there was already another one in there. They both seem to be real diamonds."

Bruce's frown deepened. He suddenly remembered Maters walking with a bulge in his pocket, and a theory formed in his mind. He also recalled the interesting conversation he had had with the jeweler, when he had gone to pick up the fake necklace that would be on display. The jeweler had thought they would be paying him $5,000 and a Rolex for the decoy rhinestone necklace, and everything was beginning to fall in place. If his theory was correct, it would mean Maters was a lot smarter than he had given him credit for.

"I wonder if Maters was trying to double cross Sionis and give him another fake. Worth some money, but not a lot. And then he would have had access to the real necklace. All to himself." Bruce said.

Gordon raised an eyebrow. "Well, truth be told, I'm not even sure which is the real one. We'll leave them in here for now and get a jeweler to have a look at them later." He paused, looking around, eyes narrowing. "We're short staffed. I have to send some of the cops with those two-" he gestured to Maters and Sionis, both on stretchers, "-to the hospital for safety and security purposes. And we still have three guys left to arrest upstairs, in front of hundreds of innocent civilians. I don't think we can spare someone to stay down here. I'll have the museum lock the stairwell and monitor the elevators to make sure no one comes down."

Bruce nodded. "Detective Gordon, how did you find me?" He asked curiously.

Gordon grinned. "Funny story actually. We realized you weren't around about an hour ago, but your car was still at the police station. And then I got a call from a young woman. Said she worked at the museum, and wasn't sure if she should say anything, but Bruce Wayne had promised to be out by two o'clock, and he wasn't, and she thought it would be good to mention." Gordon's grin widened. "I think she didn't want to get you in trouble. Anyway, I tried calling Maters, but there was no reception, so I called the museum security, and they told me they had not asked for an extra cop on standby. So that's when we realized we needed to head over."

Gordon gestured to the other cops. "Let's head up now. Oh," he turned to face Bruce. "You left your suit at the station. We brought it along just in case."

* * *

 _12 minutes later..._

Bruce inspected his reflection. He had done a quick job of changing in the museum bathroom stall and adjusted his tie in the mirror. Overall, he didn't look too bad, though there was that aching purple bruise on his head. He wet his hand under a stream of water and ran it through his bangs, swiping at them so they would cover the dark growing mark. Giving one last glance at the mirror, he exited the bathroom in the lobby and rode the elevator up to the event hall. As the doors opened, he stepped out, surveying the scene before him. The gala had basically just begun, and there were people milling around - some seated and being served hors d'oeuvres, some in the display room, and some dancing slowly in front of the band playing a baroque classical piece. He recognized a few undercover cops and smiled.

Bruce himself entered the display room, checking it out. Sure enough, Elvis Presley's underwear were in one display case, the gun of John Wilkes Booth in another. He passed a few novelty items, including a broken Jimmy Hendrix guitar and a 2000-year-old preserved loaf of bread. He came to the main display in the room. The Queen's necklace, which of course, no one knew was actually a rhinestone replica. There were smaller orange, green and yellow stones on the setting of the necklace, and, a big red stone in the center. On the real one, he knew, this was made from red diamond, a piece worth $1,000,000 per carat.

"How many people do you think will realize it's a fake?" Came a voice from behind him.

Bruce turned around.

Selina Kyle, looking very beautiful in an emerald green, long sleeve dress was standing behind him.

She smiled. Her hair was done up very elegantly in a faux hawk updo.

"Hopefully no one," Bruce said, glancing around. "Selina, you look lovely."

"Thanks." She said simply.

They stepped aside as two women in glittery dresses and sparkly-jeweled earrings came to view the Queen's necklace.

"Can you believe it?" One of the women said, excited. "The Queen herself wore that. It's worth 17 million dollars, I heard. Ooh, can you imagine wearing that much money on your neck?"

"Well, look at the quality," the other woman said, leaning over, in an appraising voice. "You can tell it has high value. Do you see the way the gems sit so perfectly in the setting? Good craftsmanship, that is. And they sparkle so much. Only real jewels would give off that much shine."

Selina grinned, and Bruce held back a smile as they made their way out of the display room. Bruce hoped her therapy was going well; her limp was not much better than the last time they had seen each other. Although, that had only been a day ago, he reminded himself. It seemed so far away.

"Would you like to dance?" Selina asked, gesturing to the dance floor, where another six couples were swaying slowly.

"Uh," Bruce checked his watch. The man he was supposed to be following, Derek Runyen, was not scheduled to be arriving for another twenty minutes. "I should have a few minutes," he said.

Selina nodded. "Ah, right. You're on duty."

They headed to a spot in the corner, where Bruce could still keep his eyes on the elevator for the arrival of Derek Runyen.

They danced slowly, and a mischievous grin spread over Selina's face.

"You know, I just can't get over all these rich people, admiring that necklace, talking about its value, wishing they had money to wear a piece like that, not knowing it's a fake," she said. This seemed to give her an immense amount of satisfaction. Her smiled widened, and then her gaze fell on Bruce's face. Her brows drew together, and her smile faded. "Hey, what happened to your head?"

"Long story," Bruce said, reaching up to cover the bruise with his bangs once more.

Selina looked curiously at him and he sighed. He spoke briefly, leaving out a lot of details, but mentioning that Ronan Sionis and Maters had tried to steal the necklace from the vaults as it arrived, and how Sionis had been willing to abandon his crew.

Selina looked horrified as he finished explaining.

"So," Bruce said in conclusion, "We have to catch the other three men that still think the heist is happening."

"Wow." Selina was speechless. "Wow. A cop betrayed you guys? That's… well, I guess that's cops for you."

Bruce grinned. "That's what you took out of this?"

Selina shrugged nonchalantly, but still looked unnerved. "Ronan Sionis was in this building?" Her nose wrinkled with distaste. "Man, that guy gives me the creeps. Are you sure he didn't take the necklace? Because he's sneaky like that."

"I'm sure," Bruce said. "He's in the hospital right now with a bullet in his leg."

Selina looked doubtful. "Well, if you're sure," she said.

"I said I was," Bruce said, amused. "You ever meet Ronan Sionis?"

Selina looked uncomfortable. "Yeah. Once. I was 13 and working with the Gilzean family. He showed up. Wanted a favor." Her eyes flicked downwards as she remembered the incident. "And in return, he offered to abduct the daughter of a wealthy man so the Gilzeans could get the ransom. They didn't think he had the means. So he had his guys bring in a teenager, off the street. No one knew what he was going to do. But I did. He killed the kid, right in front of everyone. And then said, _'Do you still think I can't do it?'_ " Selina shook her head with disgust. "He was only after power. And he knew how to get it. Did shocking things to push boundaries, show he was merciless."

"Sounds like the guy I met," Bruce said. "All about power."

"You're lucky you're not dead," Selina reprimanded, then added as an afterthought. "Although, he would probably have liked you." She noticed his surprised expression. "Always had a thing for powerful people."

"Makes sense."

"You've got cops down there, watching that necklace, right?" Selina asked.

"Not quite." Bruce said. "But it's safe. We've blocked the stairwell and the elevators are being monitored, and the rest of Sionis's men don't know it's down there."

"Okay," Selina said doubtfully. "But if it goes missing, it'll be Sionis's doing. That man has a way of getting what he wants." She gave a little shiver, but Bruce was staring over her shoulder at the elevator door. A man, with dark hair, but an otherwise familiar face, stepped out. It was the neck tattoo that he hadn't bothered to hide beneath the crisp tux that gave it away.

Bruce turned to Selina, half apologetic. "Sorry, got to go," he said, pulling away. "On duty now." Selina folded her arms and watched him as he walked toward the elevator.

Bruce watched the man take in his surroundings and was careful to not make eye contact as the man looked his way. Derek Runyen had arrived.


	17. Chapter 17

**Charlotte: Thank you! Thrilled to hear you're enjoying!**

 **AUSTINROX5 : Thanks! Here's Chapter 17 for you!**

 **angelamorales514: I must warn you, their relationship is always doomed to get worse before it gets better. Or the other way around. (Doomed to get better before it gets worse). But really glad you're enjoying!**

* * *

CHAPTER 17

Bruce was careful to keep at enough of a distance that Derek did not notice him, but close enough that he was within sight at all times.

Derek made his way slowly toward the display room, stopping to pick up an olive on a toothpick from a passing waiter. He popped it into his mouth. Bruce checked his watch. It was 8:09 PM. Derek was supposed to be the last to arrive of the three men, which meant that Gordon, who was monitoring the criminals and making sure his men were on them, should give the signal any minute now.

Derek entered the display room, pausing to look at the first display with feigned interest. Bruce stopped next to the 2000 year-old preserved bread, pretending to inspect it closely. Derek moved down the line of display cases, occasionally stopping to look at one exhibit or another. Bruce thought he was doing a minimal job at pretending to be interested in the displays; the movements were right: Walk, pause, examine. Walk, pause, examine. But his face showed supreme boredom.

Finally, Derek came to a standstill next to the replica of the Queen's necklace. At this, he appeared genuinely curious. Bruce watched his eyes flick around the display case and could almost see his mind racing, going over his plan to take the piece of jewelry. Bruce glanced at his watch again. 8:17 PM. What was taking so long? Why hadn't Gordon paged them yet?

He began calculating his own strategy for taking down Derek Runyen. Derek was a big, muscular man. If Bruce could knock him out immediately by getting in close and striking the Vagus Nerve, it would be a clean and effective job. No one else around (there were another seven people in the display room) would need to get hurt, or ever be in danger of getting injured.

Bruce took a step closer to Derek. He checked his watch. 8:22 PM. Surely, everyone had arrived by now and everything was in place?

Derek also checked his watch. Then he straightened his tie.

 _BANG._

In an instant, they were all plunged into darkness. There were a few surprised screams. Bruce started. What was he supposed to do? Did Gordon plan on having the lights go out? He was supposed to wait to be paged-

His breast pocket buzzed.

There it was.

He turned his attention to Derek, eyes still adjusting to the sudden darkness. He could just barely make out his hunched form, kneeling with a screw-driver, reaching forward to remove a glass plate from the display.

 _ **BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR.**_

A loud, ringing alarm sounded, echoing throughout the event hall. Derek had tripped the alarm on the display case. The thief looked up, surprised; he had not been expecting the alarm to go off.

 _ **BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR.**_

Their eyes met. Derek realized Bruce was onto him. He punched through the glass with one blow, grabbing the rhinestone necklace, his fist bloodied and shards of glass littering the floor.

 _ **BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR.**_

Bruce attacked, moving forward fluidly so his body weight was concentrated into his fist and slammed Derek in the chest. Derek stumbled back against the table. Bruce aimed a heavy blow toward his exposed neck, but Derek had adapted quicker than Bruce anticipated and managed to block the blow, simultaneously shoving him away.

 _ **BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR.**_

Derek ran for the entrance of the display room. Bruce found his balance quickly and charged after. He dived for Derek's legs, wrapping his arms around them in an effective tackle. Derek fell to the floor, face first. Bruce wasted no time locking Derek's arms behind his back and slipping on a pair of handcuffs.

 _ **BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR.**_

Derek twisted beneath him, trying to get free. For good measure, Bruce rammed the base of his palm against the sensitive nerve in Derek's neck and watched as he stopped struggling and his face slumped forward.

 _ **BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR.**_

Bruce looked up, out the entranceway to the main event hall. There seemed to be utter chaos. People were trying to get out of the hall, but couldn't, not realizing the building was on lockdown. A few beams of light appeared in the crowd and Bruce realized some people, probably police officers, had gotten hold of flashlights. They seemed to be directing people and telling them to remain calm.

 _ **BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR.**_

The alarms were still ringing loudly. A beam of light fell over Bruce's face and the holder of the flashlight came toward him. It was Gordon.

"What's going on?" Bruce asked, getting to his feet.

Gordon shone the light on Derek's crumpled form, then looked up at Bruce. "Slight problem," he said. "We lost the guy who tripped the lights. Thought he was heading to the breaker room, but then no trace of him. Don't know where he went or what he did to the lights. He tripped everything, but when we flipped the breaker back on, nothing happened." Gordon sounded harried.

 _ **BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR.**_

Gordon motioned quickly for two passing officers to come and had them move Derek Runyen's body to a safer location.

Bruce followed Gordon into the main hall. They walked up to another officer, who handed Bruce an extra flashlight.

Gordon pulled a photo from his pocket. "This is the guy. Benjamin Brown. We're doing a methodical sweep of this floor to look for him."

 _ **BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR.**_

Bruce shone his light on the photo. Benjamin was a tan guy, with dark hair and dark eyes. High cheekbones, and a flat nose.

"You take that corner," Gordon indicated the hot drink section of the room. "And we're trying to keep people in the dance area. That section's been cleared, so if we can get everyone there, it'll make our job easier."

Bruce set off, keeping the flashlight low, but high enough that he could still make out faces without shining the light in anyone's eyes. He instructed civilian stragglers he passed to head to the back section of the hall, where people who were not Benjamin Brown, were slowly making their way to.

 _ **BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR.**_

He directed his light at the long coffee tables, with floor-length tablecloths. There wasn't much to look at there, except the big urns and varied tea and coffee assortments. He turned the light to face the entrance of the display room, which was now empty. An odd movement caught his eye and he turned the light back to the coffee tables. One of the beige tablecloths was rustling in an unnatural manner. As if… as if there was someone behind it. Bruce edged closer, training the flashlight slightly upward. He didn't want whoever was down there – if there was someone – knowing he was onto them.

He came closer still, watching a pair of hands slowly appear at the bottom of the fabric, grasping it, and slowly lifted it up. A face looked out, eyes darting around. It was Benjamin Brown.

"He's here!" Bruce shouted.

Benjamin's face looked up, terrified, and he made a run for it - exactly what Bruce had hoped for. Bruce was on him in seconds, and his call had about seven other officers surrounding them instantly.

"Nice one, Bruce," Gordon said as Bruce pinned Benjamin's arms behind his back. Another officer stepped forward with a pair of handcuffs, taking over.

 _ **BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR.**_

Gordon looked around, lips pursed. "Well, that's everyone. But how did he put those damn lights out?"

Bruce got wearily to his feet. His long day was beginning to catch up to him. "Well, we can ask him," he said.

"No need." Miles Conway stepped forward, a grin on his face. "I figured it out. The easiest way to trip a breaker is to plug a faulty electric charge into a wall socket. It'll trip everything, and nothing will turn back on until it's removed. He probably plugged something into a wall socket around here. In fact, I'd venture to guess there's a wall socket under the table he was hiding under."

They walked toward the table, sat against the wall, and Gordon lifted the cloth all the way up. Sure enough, stuck in the socket that had been concealed by the table was a big black box that definitely wasn't supposed to be there. Miles reached underneath, gently extracting it from the wall. Within seconds, the lights around began to turn back on.

Gordon looked impressed. "Good thinking, Miles."

Conway grinned, patting Bruce on the back. "I couldn't let Bruce take all the credit for everything today."

Bruce smiled good naturedly.

 _ **BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR. BHIRRRRRR.**_

"Speaking of which," Gordon said, turning to Bruce. "You look like you could use a good night's sleep. You're welcome to go. We'll finish up here."

Bruce waved his offer away. "No need. I'll stick around till everything's back in order. Probably won't be long." Bruce checked his watch. It was only 8:35 PM. Had it really only been 13 minutes since the lights had gone out?

It took another few minutes before someone was able to turn the ringing alarms off. Bruce watched as the three criminals were escorted out, and Gordon sent his officers around, some checking on the gala attendees to make sure no one was suffering from too much shock, one to go attend the Queen's necklace as an added security measure, and some to help clean up the mess that the whole undertaking had caused.

Bruce was helping shepherd guests back to their tables, when he spotted a familiar face leaning against the wall of the dance floor, holding a shoeless foot. He approached quickly, concerned.

"Selina, are you alright?"

She looked up, a pained expression on her face, breath labored. "Yeah, I'm – I'm okay. Just, someone shoved past me when the lights went off and I fell, think I twisted my ankle." She forced a smile. "I'll be fine. I'm just extra sensitive now, especially when it comes to foot-injuries."

Bruce nodded, crouching beside her. "You're sure you're okay? I can have Alfred take you home."

She shook her head. "No, no, that really won't be necessary. I'll probably get a taxi in a few minutes anyway." She gave a small shudder, looking around. "Not as exciting as I thought it would be," she said. "Mostly people just screaming in the dark." She wrinkled her nose.

Bruce grinned, holding out a hand to help her to her feet. "Come on. I'll call you a taxi."

Selina started to protest, but Bruce insisted. He let Gordon know he would be back shortly and returned to Selina. Her limp seemed worse than he had ever seen it, and they decided to leave through the kitchens, which was the most direct path to a road. Bruce wondered how many set backs she would have before she could be walking normally again.

They reached the street, making light chatter. It felt very comfortable between them. Bruce waited with Selina until her taxi came, and watched her get in.

"I'll still see you Saturday?" Bruce asked.

Selina raised an eyebrow in amusement. "I haven't changed my plans, have you?"

"No. No. Of course not." Bruce shook his head as Selina instructed the driver to take her to Concord Towers. The taxi rolled down the street.

Bruce watched it leave, slightly amused. Somehow, with Selina, things never went the way he would have planned. But he enjoyed their relationship for what it was, whatever it was. Things were never dull between them. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Bruce returned to the gala upstairs.

Gordon seemed to have things mostly under control. A large portion of the attendees were seated at tables now, being served their main course as if nothing unusual had just happened. Gordon was speaking with the museum director, and beckoned Bruce over.

Ms. Marge, whom Bruce had met once before, eagerly stepped forward to shake Bruce's hand. "Detective Gordon has just told me how you single-handedly stopped all the robberies here. I am truly grateful."

Bruce shifted in place. "Er, thank you. I can't take credit for that though, there was a whole team of people doing their jobs here. "

"Oh, I hear it was a lot more than that." Ms. Marge thanked him again, a wide smile on her face. Then she turned, nodding to Gordon, and walked off.

Bruce took a step closer to the detective.

"How's Selina?" Gordon asked, looking at Bruce. "Is she ok?"

"Yeah. Yeah," Bruce couldn't help the smile on his face. "She's good. A real fighter."

Gordon gave a knowing smile. "Glad things are good between you two," he said.

"Now, what is that supposed to mean, Detective?" Bruce asked, a twinkle in his eye.

Gordon grinned and shook his head. "Nothing, nothing. One moment-" he pulled his ringing phone out of his pocket. "Let me just get this – Hello?"

Bruce watched as Gordon's brows drew together seriously, his expression grave. "Uh huh. I understand. I'll have my men on it right away." He hung up, expression troubled, and turned to Bruce. He paused, forehead tense. He seemed to be in a state of confusion and shock.

Bruce waited.

"It seems…" Gordon started slowly, "…that Ronan Sionis cannot be accounted for in the hospital."

Bruce frowned, suddenly alert. "What do you mean?"

"Not cuffed to his bed like he's supposed to be. And there's a locked exit door that's been broken open. They think he's escaped."

Bruce drew in a deep breath. He felt a strong feeling of frustration in his gut, like they were back at square one. All his hours of effort had gone out the window.

Gordon shook his head. "Well, I better get some people on that right away," he said. "Sionis was shot in the leg, so he shouldn't have gotten too far or be too hard to find." He craned his neck, looking around for officers. The elevator doors buzzed beside them, and Miles Conway walked out, an anxious look on his face.

"Miles," Gordon said. "You're actually just the man I want to see. Listen, we've got a situation-" he noticed Conway's unsettled look and slowed to a stop.

"Jim, there were two necklaces down in the vault, right?" Conway asked, agitated.

Gordon nodded slowly, anticipating the worst. "Yes. Why?"

Conway swallowed, glancing at Bruce, then back to Gordon. "I've looked everywhere. There's only one down there right now."


End file.
